Shadow Games
by Jilsen
Summary: Murder mystery/crime thriller. Starts Joe-centric but eventually involves V, F, & N. Rated T for violence, minor coarse language, & mild suggestive adult themes. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I own nothing, neither the Hardy Boys nor Nancy Drew. I do own all the original characters presented herein and the basic idea for this story._

 _A/N: This story follows on the footsteps of Home for Christmas, Murder by the Sea, and Meet Me at Midnight. You do not have to read those stories to understand this story. I like stories to be able to 'stand alone' and I write them that way. I write the characters as adults, doing adult things. Joe is 30 years old, Vanessa is 27, Nancy and Frank are 31. Mind the "T" rating. There is some language, violence, and adult themes. But foremost, this is a murder mystery, the classic who-dun-it. If you're interested, I invite you to continue reading._

Chapter 1

 ** _Healy, Illinois_**

He ran as fast as his ten year old legs would allow. The night was damp and musty and the cool air chilled his skin as he raced into the woods. Trees towered over him. Their branches reached out and looked as if they might grab him. Here though, he wasn't afraid. The woods were his home, his secret sanctuary. The trees would protect him, hide and shield him from the monsters.

He had run a long way and was breathing hard, running out of energy.

 _Don't stop! Don't stop!_

Those words propelled him on, his legs continued pumping, taking him deeper into the woods. He had to get away from the monsters.

 _Had to, had to, had to!_

A quick glance over his shoulder. No one there. It was late at night, well past eleven p.m. No one knew he was gone. The consequences for sneaking out of the house were a severe beating. He'd endured plenty of beatings and didn't relish another.

A tree root tripped him and he almost fell. He stumbled, arms wind-milling, and caught himself at the last second.

 _Pay attention! You're going to hurt yourself if you don't._

He could never explain a bruise or a cut. Injuries would demand questions. How'd you get those? There'd be hell to pay if the monsters found out he'd left the house at night.

Up ahead, he saw it. The tree. The biggest one in the woods. He ran to it and, panting, collapsed against the trunk. Gulped in lungfuls of air. Finally, he was safe. He laid his cheek against the gnarly bark and hugged the tree trunk. Wrapped his arms tight around it. It was so thick his arms didn't go completely around it. Pine scent and earthy smells filled his nose. This was his tree. The king of the woods. It was strong and sturdy, taller than any of the other trees. It was a silent sentinel. It watched over the trees and animals and even him. Or so he believed. It was a belief he needed and clung to desperately.

The tree was the only family he had. The only thing in his life he truly loved.

Tears squeezed out of the corners of his eyes and rolled down his cheeks. He hated crying. Only weaklings cried.

No tears, he told himself between sobs. _No tears_. But they came anyway. He swatted them away. Why couldn't he be strong like his tree? It was a silly fantasy that crept into his dreams at night. He told himself he had to face facts, he was just a boy, a ten year old kid. He wasn't strong at all and he wasn't tall either.

Anger exploded inside his small heart. He hated the world and all the things in it he couldn't control. Too many things!

Soberly, he thought of the people he hated.

The monsters. That's what he called them. They weren't really people at all and he hated every one of them.

The monsters lived in his house. They ate breakfast and dinner with him. A visitor to their home would think the monsters were normal people, no different than anyone else. A visitor would be very, very wrong. Sure, on the outside the monsters looked like normal people. It was on the inside, where no one could see, that they were monsters. Black hearts and souls lay hidden within those normal looking bodies.

Hot tears ran down the little boy's cheeks and his nose began to run. He sniffed as tears dripped off his cheeks and fell on his t-shirt.

Several minutes passed before he was able to calm himself. Now, he was tired. Oh, so tired. Too much running. Too much crying. Too much fear. Too much anger and hate. It had taken a toll on his small body. And heart. Couldn't forget his heart. He still had one and it had suffered so very much.

 _He wondered, how much could one heart bear?_

The boy slid to the ground, his t-shirt snagging on the tree bark, and sat Indian-style on the damp ground. Indian-style, that's what his kindergarten teacher had called it when the students gathered on the carpet for storytime.

He was in the fifth grade now and big kids didn't sit on the floor, they sat at desks. He wished he was an even bigger kid. A teenager. Teenagers were big and strong.

Well, one day he would be bigger. One day he would be full grown. He had big plans for when he was all grown up. At night he dreamed about those plans. When he grew up, he was going to kill all the monsters. Every. Last. One of them.

Dan, his stepdad, would be first. Dan was the reason Wayne ran to the big tree in the woods behind his house. Dan was big and strong _and_ mean. A shiver crawled down Wayne's back as he thought about Dan. Dan beat Wayne with his belt for the smallest of offenses.

Wayne had the feeling that Dan just sat around waiting for Wayne to screw up. It didn't take much. At first, Wayne had tried to please Dan. That hadn't lasted long. It soon became apparent that there was no pleasing Dan. And soon, Wayne didn't care. He quit trying to please a person he could never please.

When the beatings first started Wayne would run and hide in the house, in a closet, under a bed, in the backyard. Any place he could squeeze his little body into. That had been a mistake. Hiding had only made Dan angrier. He didn't like to hunt Wayne down. It was time and effort that he could spend doing other things, like drinking beer. So, when he'd find Wayne – and he always did – he'd beat him twice as hard.

 _Only cowards run and hide,_ Dan would say as he pulled his belt free from the loops on his pants. _Real men stay and take their punishment. And real men don't cry. You hear me, boy?_

Wayne didn't know if that was true. That real men didn't cry. Deep down, he sensed real men _did_ cry. Everybody cried once in a while. Even men had to cry sometimes.

No matter what, there was one thing Wayne knew in his heart; if _real_ men beat children, then Wayne didn't want to be a real man.

The belt buckle had left scars on Wayne's back and buttocks. Scars his mother had seen and said nothing about. Her mode of living was to ignore the things she found unpleasant. She gave no indication she cared about Wayne or the fact he was being beaten. Alcohol was the only thing his mother cared about. When the beer started to run low in the house, _then_ she cared and _then_ she did something. No beer in the house was a real problem and had to be fixed. An immediate trip to the store was made.

No food in the house? Who cared? Food they could live without. Beer they couldn't.

It was no surprise that Wayne despised his mother. She was a dumb, stupid drunk and the reason he lived in fear. She was the one who'd brought Dan, the monster, into their home.

Wayne used the hem of his shirt to wipe his nose. Over the past two years Dan had turned everyone in the house into monsters. Everyone except Wayne. Wayne couldn't be turned. He was too smart and because of that Dan had punished him constantly.

Tears flowed in a steady stream and Wayne wiped them away with the heels of his hands. Why couldn't he be bigger? Stronger? Older?

His sister, Connie, was sixteen. She had a car and worked at a fast food place. Wayne hardly ever saw her. Connie didn't come home much. Wayne didn't blame her. If he was sixteen and had a car and a job, he wouldn't come home much either. Actually, he'd move far, far away and _never_ come back. This place and, the people who lived here, could rot in hell for all he cared. He'd heard his mother say that once … _rot in hell_. Wayne figured his mother could do the same.

Connie was lucky. She lived in her own little world. A happy little world. Dan didn't beat her and Wayne didn't get the impression she cared about him or his beatings. Connie only cared about one thing, her boyfriend Jason. Jason was everything Wayne wanted to be – big, tall, and strong. Jason was a high school football player and Wayne was in awe of him. Wayne had to tip his head way back just to look up and see Jason's face.

What Jason saw in Connie, Wayne's ten year old brain couldn't fathom. She giggled like an idiot whenever Jason came to the house and when Jason held her hand, Connie got a goofy smile on her face. She looked so stupid Wayne wanted to laugh at her. He never did though because he liked Jason and didn't want to hurt his feelings.

Wayne had a feeling that if Dan ever hurt Connie, ever laid a finger on her, Jason would do something. Jason would protect Connie. Wayne wasn't exactly sure what Jason would do though. Maybe he would beat Dan up.

Wayne gave the idea some serious thought and then sighed. That was never going to happen. Dan never paid much attention to Connie. She was free to come and go as she pleased. It was Wayne who drew Dan's attention.

Wayne didn't want to think about Dan anymore and went back to Jason. Jason actually seemed to care a little about Wayne. Jason had shared his plans for the future with Wayne. He'd told Wayne how he was going in the army right after he graduated high school.

Jason had winked at Wayne and, in a half-joking way, said, "I'm gonna learn how to shoot guns and kill people." He'd made his hand into a gun and had pretended to shoot the bushes.

Wayne had smiled and laughed right along with Jason. It was their secret.

One time when Jason came to visit he'd brought two baseball gloves and a ball. He'd tossed one of the gloves to Wayne and they'd played catch in the backyard. It was the best hour of Wayne's short life. No adult male had ever spent time with him doing normal little boy stuff. He'd never met his real father. Truth be told, Wayne didn't know who his father was or where he was. His mother never talked about him. Maybe she didn't know who he was. There'd been a lot of men in her life.

Unfortunately, playing catch with Jason hadn't lasted long. Connie had showed up and spoiled everything. She'd grabbed Jason by the arm and said they had to go, had to leave right that minute. She was hungry and wanted to try that new fast food place. _Couldn't they go there? Please, please, please_.

The goofy smile had made its way to her lips and she'd batted her eyelashes seductively. Wayne had found the act sickening and had hated how Jason got all mushy and did what Connie wanted.

"Yeah, babe. Sure. I was just playing catch with the kid."

Jason had looked at Wayne, patted him on the head, and said, "Sorry kid, gotta go. We'll play catch next time I come. You can keep the glove."

Wayne had hid his disappointment well. Jason never saw see how crushed he was. Jason was the only good thing in Wayne's life and he didn't want to lose the friendship, if it was a friendship. Wayne wasn't sure, he didn't have any friends. Having secrets had made him a loner. He didn't talk to other kids at school. Didn't want any of them knowing what was happening to him. He was ashamed of it .. and himself.

Wayne had flopped on the front porch steps, his heart heavy, and had watched Jason's car disappear down the street. Tears welled in his eyes as he thought of Jason and what he'd said about joining the army. Wayne had decided right then and there that he was going to join the army, too, when he grew up. He was going to learn how to shoot guns and kill people.

One day, he would come back to Healy, Illinois. One day, he would kill all the monsters. He'd start with Dan, kill him first. And then his mother. And finally his sister Connie.

Wayne would kill every last one of them.

# # # #

 ** _Eighteen years later_**

What the …

They'd warned him it was bad. Worst crime scene Healy, Illinois police had ever seen.

Jesus H. Christ.

Detective Ziegler swallowed the bile rising in his throat.

Blood everywhere. Walls. Floor.

Dear god, even on the ceiling.

Whoever had killed Dan Sagget had hated the man. Hated him with a deep, abiding passion. Christ, they'd hacked him to bits with an ax. Detective Ziegler knew this because the ax was lying right there, next to the body, wooden handle splattered with blood and the blade covered in it.

Detective Ziegler ran a weary, trembling hand down his face. Yeah, the worst crime scene he'd ever had the misfortune to see.

Jesus. How was he ever going to get that image out of his mind? He'd have nightmares for the rest of his life.

# # # #

 ** _River Heights, Illinois_**

Joe Hardy sat at his office desk and stared at his computer screen. It was rare for Joe to sit at his desk and contemplate his computer screen. He preferred movement. He was an action oriented sort of guy. Seven years in the army as an MP (military police) had provided him plenty of action. More action at times then he'd really wanted. However, if asked, he would say he'd enjoyed most of those seven years. He'd certainly appreciated the constant change of scenery. Maybe not the two tours in Afghanistan, but the other tours had been fine. Stateside duty was always easier than overseas duty.

Now, Joe was a private investigator working with his brother, Frank, and Frank's fiancée, Nancy. The three of them owned and operated a detective agency in River Heights, Illinois, Nancy's hometown. Joe and Frank had moved here almost two years ago. Joe had met the woman he planned to marry. She worked next day at an insurance company. Her name was Vanessa Bender and she'd said yes when Joe had proposed to her last December.

Things in Joe Hardy's world were looking pretty good. Well, until today. He leaned back in his chair and thought about the e-mail staring back at him from his computer screen. The first e-mail had come six days ago. Joe had cringed a little when he saw it. Sworn a little, too. It wasn't from someone he wanted to hear from. He'd sighed, felt a little regret, hit delete, and forgotten all about it.

Two days later a second e-mail had arrived. Joe had cringed again, sworn again, and hit delete again.

Today, a third e-mail had popped up in his inbox. Joe figured it was time. He had to do something. He couldn't let the e-mails pile up. It appeared they would keep coming. It was clear that the sender wasn't going to give up. He wasn't that type of guy. Joe knew this due to his long association with the sender. The two men had served together in the army as MPs. They'd done two tours together in Afghanistan. You don't forget people you serve with in a combat zone. You certainly don't turn your back on them. Joe had trusted the guy with his life in Afghanistan and that said a lot about the guy.

You owed people like that. You owed them a response at the very least.

Damn. Joe hadn't ever wanted to hear from Wayne Banyan again. Not that Wayne wasn't a good soldier because he was. One of the best actually. Top-notch. Joe could find no fault in Wayne as a soldier.

No, that wasn't why Joe didn't want to hear from Wayne. It was more about Wayne himself. Wayne was … well, to put it delicately, a little different. There was something about him, something that made people shy away. In the army, people had given Wayne a wide berth. That had worked both ways. Wayne didn't like people getting too close. He wasn't in to socializing. He didn't party, didn't go to the bars and get drunk with the guys, and didn't chase women. Bottom line, Wayne kept to himself and expected others to do the same.

However, in a combat or work situation, Wayne was all in. He was one hundred percent committed to the unit and fellow soldiers. Joe had respected that, even admired it. If you had asked Joe his opinion he would have said Wayne was a shining example of a professional soldier, a true team player.

Wayne and Joe had been an unbeatable team in Afghanistan. They'd done hundreds of patrols together. The fact they'd managed to get through two tours relatively unscathed said a lot. Not everyone came back to the States in one piece .. or alive.

Joe's blond hair was cropped short just like in the army. He was thirty years old and had been out of the army for close to four years. When he'd left the army, he'd purged Wayne Banyan from his mind. Joe had hit the delete button and forgotten all about him. Harsh, but true. Now that Joe thought about it – really thought about it – he'd done it because Wayne was different. A little odd. Did that truly warrant ignoring a man's e-mails?

Joe looked at the computer screen. Three e-mails in six days. Might be something important. _Had_ to be something important. Wayne wouldn't send an e-mail, let alone three, if it wasn't something important.

Damn. Joe had to respond. He owed Wayne that much.

Maybe Wayne just wanted to say, 'Hi.' Could be, but that didn't feel right. Wayne wasn't the type of guy that e-mailed just to say, 'Hi.'

Nope, had to be something else. Something important.

What?

Only one way to find out. Joe hit _reply_ and answered Wayne's e-mail.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Joe rolled into Healy, Illinois on a Tuesday afternoon at 4:15. Joe still didn't know why Wayne Banyan wanted to see him. He knew it was important. Life and death important. Wayne had made that clear in his e-mail. Good enough for Joe.

Joe checked into one of the cheaper chain hotels and headed to his room. He tossed his duffel bag and jacket on a chair and collapsed on the bed. He and Wayne had arranged to meet at six at a restaurant called _The Steak House_.

Joe's phone was in his hand and Vanessa, his fiancée, was on his mind. She'd said to call the minute he got settled. He was sprawled on the bed. Looked like he was settled, so he dialed her number. A smile split his face when she answered.

He told her about his day. Not much to tell, just three hours of boring driving, then said, "What'd you do today?"

"Nancy and I went dress shopping."

Yeah, that made sense, he thought. Vanessa needed a dress for the wedding. He and Vanessa were getting married in December, three months from now and exactly one year from the day he'd proposed. Why they'd had to wait a whole year to tie the knot was beyond him. Seemed to be the way women liked to do these things. Make a big production of it. If it had been up to him they'd have gotten married at the local justice of the peace a week after he'd proposed and been living as husband and wife for the past year. That made a heck of a lot more sense to him.

Oh well, let the women have their fun. His mother was totally into this wedding. That might be because Nancy and Frank, were also getting married the same day. Yep, Frank had finally proposed to Nancy and for some crazy reason she'd accepted. That was what Joe jokingly told people. Most laughed and Nancy was good natured enough to just roll her eyes and shook her head at him. She understood him just fine and they got along great.

Vanessa was still talking, telling him about the dresses she and Nancy had tried on. He only half-listened. Who cared about a dress she was only going to wear for a few hours? Sure, she'd look pretty in it, but he was more interested in what she was going to wear on the honeymoon. Honeymoon night to be specific. He envisioned some lacy lingerie in black _and_ if he had his way, she'd only be wearing that for a few minutes, say ten or twenty. Okay, thirty minutes max. He was smart enough not to say any of this to Vanessa, not tonight when she was so excited about the dresses for the wedding.

Eventually, she wound down and they expressed their undying love for each other and ended the call. He tossed his phone on the bed and sighed. Damn, he missed her.

He lay there a few minutes wallowing in his misery and then forced himself off the bed. Time to get ready to meet Wayne.

# # # #

Joe got to the restaurant at 5:30 and took a seat at the bar. Big screen TVs around the bar had the Cubs game on. Joe ordered a beer and watched the Cubs lose to the Mets. He was finishing his beer when Wayne walked through the door. Joe lifted a hand in greeting. Wayne nodded and made his way to the bar.

Wayne didn't drink. Joe remembered that from their army days. Wayne smoked though – exactly two cigarettes a day – one in the morning and one in the evening. Wayne was the master of control. That was something that had always amazed Joe.

They shared tepid _hellos_ and _how've you beens_ then found a booth in a quiet corner. Mindy, the waitress, appeared and handed them menus. Joe ordered another beer and Wayne ordered a Coke.

Joe sat across from Wayne and studied his old army buddy carefully. Wayne looked exactly the same as he had in the army. Shaggy brown hair now a little longer. Pale skin which told Joe Wayne spent more time indoors than out. The exact opposite of Afghanistan.

Wayne pushed up his round, rimless glasses in a very distinct and precise manner. That's how Wayne was, very precise about everything he did. Joe had seen that same, small gesture of pushing up his glasses a thousand times in the desert.

"Thanks for coming," Wayne said.

"It sounded important," Joe said. "Care to tell me what this is all about?"

The corner of Wayne's mouth twitched. A sign he was nervous or anxious or both. He folded his hands together on the table and looked directly at Joe. "It's about a murder."

The waitress returned with their drinks. Unfortunate timing on her part and she sensed it. The tension between the two men was palpable.

"Um, ready to order or do you guys need a few more minutes?"

Wayne barely turned his head to answer. "Give us a few minutes, Mindy."

"Sure." Mindy left quickly.

Joe had noticed the way Mindy had looked at Wayne. Like he was a leper. An outcast. An oddball.

Joe frowned at Wayne and said, "You come here often?"

Wayne stared blankly at Joe. "Huh?"

"You know the waitress's name."

"Oh. Yeah. This is the only decent place in town to eat. I come two or three times a week."

Joe nodded and sipped his beer. "So, back to where we were. You said something about a murder."

"My stepfather. He was hacked to death."

"Hacked?"

"Someone went at him with an ax."

Joe cringed and set his beer on the table. "Who'd do something like that?"

"Me."

Joe was momentarily speechless. He looked around the restaurant. Wondered if anyone could hear this conversation. Most customers were at the bar. It was busy over there now and Joe noticed some interested glances cast his way. Or were they looking at Wayne?

There were a few diners seated at tables. Families with kids. They were far enough away, and busy enough with their kids, that they couldn't hear Joe and Wayne's conversation.

Joe turned back to Wayne and lowered his voice, "You killed him?"

"No. Someone beat me to it."

"Banyan," Joe hissed, "what are you saying? You mean you wanted to kill him and didn't?" Joe's voice was a low growl. This conversation had taken an ugly turn.

A cheer went up at the bar. The Cubs had finally scored a run.

"I didn't kill him," Wayne said in a flat, even tone. Too flat and too even.

"Are you being honest with me?" The frown lines deepened on Joe's forehead. He wasn't sure what to think.

Wayne studied his hands like there was a secret hidden there, inside his palms. "I wanted to kill him. That much is true. Had it all planned out, but someone beat me to it. Did the job for me."

"Geez." Joe felt like he'd stepped into an episode of the Twilight Zone. Out of all the possibilities he had considered for why Wayne Banyan had wanted to see him, murder had never entered his mind.

Joe took a healthy chug of beer, swallowed, and thought, there had to be more to Wayne's story. There _had_ to be.

Joe said, "So, why do you need me?"

"I want you to find out who really killed my stepfather."

"What do you mean by _really_? Aren't the local police investigating?"

Banyan brought his head up and met Joe's gaze. "They are. I just don't think they're going to find the real killer. They're focusing on me too much. They think I did it."

Joe sensed there was something else Wayne hadn't told him. "Why are they focused on you?"

Wayne swallowed and said, "They found bloody gloves in my backyard."

Well, there was the _something else_. Joe said, "Bloody gloves as in the ones used to commit the murder?"

Wayne nodded and sipped his Coke. "Yup, they were covered in Dan Sagget's blood. That's my stepfather. _Was_ my stepfather. The police already got the DNA results back. The murder happened two weeks ago."

Joe ran a hand over his short, blond hair and rested an arm on the table. "Um, so, got any ideas as to how the gloves wound up in your backyard?"

Wayne shrugged like he didn't care. "Someone could've thrown them over my fence. I work nights from eight p.m. to four a.m. I'm a security guard for the local banks and schools. I'm on the road all night driving from one place to the other, checking ATMs, buildings, doors, locks, and parking lots. If I see anything suspicious I call it in. I know some of the local law enforcement."

Not that it's helped you so far, Joe thought. "So, no idea who might've thrown bloody gloves in your backyard?"

"Nope. None."

"When were the gloves found? I mean, how long after the murder?"

Wayne looked uncomfortable. "The day after it happened. Someone called in a tip to the police and the police asked if they could search my yard. I said, sure, go ahead. I had no idea the gloves were there."

"Hmm." Joe lifted his beer to his lips. He took a sip and set the glass back on the table. "Someone called in a tip. Sounds like someone might be trying to frame you for the murder."

Wayne nodded. "That's how I see it."

"But why _you_? Why pin the murder on you?"

Wayne's discomfort moved up a notch. He adjusted his glasses, that small, distinct gesture again. A nervous gesture Joe decided.

"All I can figure," Wayne said, "is someone knew how much I hated my stepfather."

"Hated him? Why?" Joe had asked the question too fast, too sudden. He could see that now. Wayne's expression said this subject was off-limits. It was private and personal.

Joe waited, wondering if Wayne would answer. Mindy showed up and broke the tension. "Have you guys decided what you'd like for dinner? Or .. or do you need more time."

"I'm ready to order," Joe said. "Unless you need more time, Wayne?"

"No, I'm ready. I'll have the steak platter."

Mindy wrote on her pad. "Steak, medium. And your usual sides, baked potato and green beans?"

"Yeah, thanks."

Mindy turned to Joe and bestowed a sweet smile upon him. "How 'bout you, partner? What would you like?"

"I'll have the same. Except make my steak medium well, please."

"Sounds good, guys. I'll get these orders in. You need another beer?" Mindy nodded at Joe's half empty glass.

"Nah, I'm fine. Thanks."

"Okay then." Mindy scooped up the menus they hadn't even glanced at and left.

Joe got back to his questions. "You were saying you hated your stepfather."

Wayne placed his forearms on the table, folded his hands together, and looked at Joe. "Can we call him Dan? He doesn't deserve the title of father."

"Sure. Fine. I'm just trying to figure out why someone would want him dead."

"Me, too." Wayne studied the table for a second like he was trying to make up his mind. Finally, his head came up and he said, "This is a small town and Dan Sagget had a reputation. He wasn't known as the nicest guy around. I've heard he might have had enemies."

"You have any names?"

Wayne thought about it and said, "Maybe. Randy Gage. Dan and my mom split several years ago. She hooked up with Randy pretty quick after the breakup. I got the impression that Randy and Dan didn't get along. Was there enough bad blood for Randy to kill Dan? I don't know." Wayne gave a half-hearted shrug.

"How well do you know Randy Gage?"

"Not well. Mom took up with him after I joined the army. I only met him one time. Once when I came home on leave. Never came home on leave again after that. Best thing I can say about Randy is he seemed a little more upstanding than Dan."

"Your mom still with him?"

"Last I heard she was." Wayne saw the question in Joe's eyes. "I ran into my sister, Connie, in the grocery store a few months ago. We're not close. Never were. She's six years older than me. She asked if I'd heard from mom lately. I said, no, was there a reason I should have? She said, no, not really, she was just asking because she'd heard that Randy had come into some money. His mom had died, I think. Anyway, Connie wanted to know if I'd heard anything about that. I hadn't, but I knew why Connie would be interested in knowing. She lives in a trailer park on the outskirts of town and welfare's her only source of income. Only _reliable_ source of income I should say. She's always looking for a handout. She even asked me for money that day. The point is, if my mom's come into some money via Randy then Connie'll be plotting ways to get her hands on some of it."

A corner of Joe's mouth lifted in a disgusted sneer. "Nice," his voice was heavy with sarcasm. "Anyone else you can think of that might want Dan dead?"

"The only other person I can think of is Kyle Nicholson. He was Dan's boss. I actually didn't know that until the police came to search my house and yard. One of the officers asked if I knew Kyle Nicholson. I said I'd never heard of him. The officer told me Nicholson owns a loading dock and warehouse on the river. What that has to do with Dan or his murder, I haven't a clue. After the officers left I did a little checking of my own. Word on the docks is, Nicholson is a man you _don't_ cross."

Joe frowned, leaned back, and crossed his arms. "So, why aren't the police looking harder at him for this murder?"

Wayne picked up his Coke. "I suppose because the gloves were found in my backyard. That's their whole case right there. Bloody gloves in my yard."

"Yeah, but they haven't found any other evidence that puts you at the crime scene, have they?"

"That would be an affirmative, and they won't." Wayne took a long sip of his Coke.

"Anyone could've planted those gloves," Joe said. "It's not hard to toss a pair of gloves over a fence in the dead of night when no one's home."

Joe rubbed his chin and thought it through. Things seemed too convenient, too easy. Had someone planned to frame Wayne from the start or had that idea come later?

Wayne used his napkin to wipe up drops of condensation on the table. He was methodical and precise. He set his Coke on the damp napkin and looked at Joe. "I'm on their radar, the police, and whoever's out to pin this murder on me. I can't investigate this on my own. I need help."

Joe had an idea where Wayne was going.

Wayne said, "You're the closest thing I got to a friend. We were tight in the army. I'm hoping we still are."

Joe started to say something, but Wayne held up a hand and stopped him. "Let me finish before you say anything. You've heard the outline of the case against me. What I need is an impartial third party, someone who's not from around here and doesn't have an ax to grind. What I want, Joe, is for you to take this case. I want to hire you. I want you to investigate and find out who killed Dan Sagget. I got some money tucked away, I can pay you for your work. Charge me just like you'd charge any other client."

# # # #

It was eight p.m. when Joe trudged up the stairs to his second floor hotel room and slid the keycard into the door. He pushed open the door, flipped on the light, and entered. He shut the door, tossed the keycard on top of the nightstand, went to the window, and looked out. The well-lit back parking lot greeted him. Beyond the lot was a thick forest and beyond that, out there somewhere, flowed the Illinois River. The small town of Healy sat on the banks of the river.

Joe pulled the curtains together, shutting out the view. He turned from the window and ran a hand over the back of his neck. Wayne Banyan and Dan Sagget were uppermost in his thoughts.

Wayne had given Joe a check tonight. It was tucked in Joe's wallet. Joe was now being paid to find Dan Sagget's murderer. Technically, the _Endeavor Detective Agency_ was being paid to find him, or her. Okay, Joe doubted the _her_ part.

Joe tugged his phone from its holster and punched in his brother's number.

Frank answered after two rings, "Hey Joe, how's it going?"

"Not bad, bro. I accepted a case tonight. Wayne wants me to find out who killed his stepfather."

"A murder case then?"

"Yeah, Wayne gave me a few details to get me started. Looks like I'll be here a few day."

"Got any suspects?" Joe sensed the frown in Frank's tone.

"Sort of," Joe said. "There's Randy Gage, the current husband of Wayne's mother. According to Wayne, Randy and Dan Sagget, the ex-husband and murder victim, were never on the best of terms. Might be some history between the two and some bad blood. Hard to say. Then there's Kyle Nicholson. He was Sagget's boss. Don't know what's up with him. Wayne said Nicholson owns a warehouse on the docks. There might be some illegal stuff going on there."

"Sounds like something you should look in to," Frank said.

"Yeah, I'll do that tomorrow. I also have to arrange a meeting with the detective in charge of Dan Sagget's case." Joe pulled a scrap of paper from his jean's pocket and peered at it. The words, Detective Ziegler, stared back at him. Wayne had given Joe the name and phone number at dinner.

"Well, I won't keep you," Frank said. "The girls are here trying on dresses. I've been elected to judge them. I have to pick the ones I like best."

At that moment Joe would have given his right leg to be a judge. "You lucky dog. Tell Vanessa I miss her."

"Tell her yourself. Here she is."

Joe heard the phone exchange hands and then Vanessa's voice, "Hey baby, how are things in Healy?"

Joe told her exactly how things were and that he wouldn't be home for a few days. Probably not until the weekend. Understandably, this news was not met with enthusiasm.

"I'm sorry, babe," Joe said. "Duty calls."

"Oh, I know. It's just that I miss you all ready." The sigh and longing in Vanessa's voice touched a deep chord within Joe.

"I miss you, too. Tell Frank he's lucky he gets to judge the dresses. Wish I was there."

"I'll tell him." Vanessa blew Joe an air kiss and all too soon the call ended.

Joe threw his phone on the bed and paced the hotel room. Peeked out the window a couple of times. Nothing to see out there. He was restless and wound up. He craved action, something to do. He wanted to kick-start the investigation.

An idea occurred to him. Why not drive by Wayne's house? Get a feel for the neighborhood and streets. Just how easy was it for someone to toss a pair of gloves over the fence?

Yeah, that's what he'd do. Drive by Wayne's place. Wayne was gone now. He'd be gone until 4 a.m. This was the perfect time to check things out.

Joe scooped his jacket of a chair and tugged it on. It hadn't been cold when Joe arrived in town, but now it was dark and the temperature was dropping. He turned, grabbed his keycard off the nightstand and picked up his phone off the bed. He pulled the door closed and headed for the stairs to the lobby.

This was good. He had something to do, something to investigate.

* * *

 _A/N: Thank you to everyone reading, favoriting, following, and an extra big thank you to those who left a review. I do appreciate those and tried to respond to everyone. Hopefully, the story will continue to intrigue you._


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Joe drove his truck slowly down the street. Most of the streetlamps were working which was a definite plus. The homes were older, probably built in the 1950s or 60s. There appeared to be pride in ownership in the neighborhood. Yards were well-maintained and the homes were in good repair.

Joe came to Wayne's single story ranch house and slowed to a crawl. He saw a small front yard with a short picket fence. A thin paved path led to the front door. The porch light was on, but it wasn't throwing much light anywhere. Mainly just around the doorknob. Well, that was good. Wayne could find the doorknob when he got home at four in the morning. Light glowed in one small curtained window. Joe guessed it to be the kitchen. A detached garage sat to the left of the house. Joe's focus shifted to the high wooden fence surrounding the backyard. The fence was why he'd come. He wanted a closer look at it and the back alley that ran behind it.

Joe did a U-turn and parked his truck on the opposite side of the street. He got out, shut the door quietly, zipped up his jacket, and walked across the street.

Wayne's house was second from the corner. At the corner, a streetlamp cast a generous circle of light and lit the sidewalk quite nicely. Joe walked to the corner, turned left, walked a few yards and took another left. Then he entered the back alley. The alley was wide enough for the trash truck to travel down it in one direction. Fences on both sides of the alley cut off the glow from the corner streetlamp. Joe felt boxed in, kind of trapped. Part of that feeling came from his time in Afghanistan. His head swiveled left and right as he scanned the alley. No one back here as far as he could see. It was after ten at night and Wayne was at work so Joe figured he had the alley all to himself. No one knew he was there.

Well, that's where he was wrong. Someone did know he was there. They'd heard his footsteps when he'd entered the alley. They'd tracked each and every step as Joe approached Wayne's fence. And now, they were crouched on the other side of that fence, waiting, wondering what the intruder would do next.

Joe stood in the middle of the alley and studied the fence. There was a gate about halfway down. Joe walked to it, grabbed the latch, and pushed. Bolted on the inside he figured. Probably padlocked. His attention returned to the fence. It was a nice wooden structure that stood six feet high, the same height as him. He rose on his toes, put his hands on the top of the fence, and peeked over. Couldn't see much. Too dark in the backyard. The glow from the corner streetlamp didn't penetrate the confines of the backyard.

Joe tightened his grip on the fence and tried to shake it. The thing didn't budge. It was solid and sturdy. That was good news for what Joe had in mind. He was going up and over. He'd drop right down into the yard and have a quick look around. No harm, no foul. He'd get over the fence the same way he'd cleared _the Wall_ in Basic Training. _The Wall_ was part of the obstacle course. Recruits had to scale it. The goal was to be fast and fluid.

Joe backed away from the fence and unzipped his jacket. He needed his arms free with a full range of motion. He swung his arms back and forth, getting loose, getting the blood flowing. He bounced on his feet and eyed the fence. A little more distance would be nice. He backed up some more. Okay, the distance looked about right. He bent at the knees, got his arms in the ready position, took a breath, and bolted. Just a short, hard sprint. Legs and arms pumping. Then he leaped, grabbed hold of the top of the fence with both hands, hooked his right foot on the top, and let momentum carry him over.

He wasn't graceful or fluid. The whole procedure was rather ugly. His landing was more a fall then a drop and it hurt. He landed on his side and rolled onto his back, his arms flung out. He looked like he was getting ready to make a snow angel in the snow, except there wasn't any snow. He stared up at the sky. The glow of the streetlamp turned the sky a milky gray and obscured the stars.

Joe started to push up on his elbows, but a sound stopped him. The low growl of a large dog. A very large dog.

Well, that wasn't good. Why hadn't Wayne said anything about having a dog? It would've been nice to know that little fact. Joe's brow furrowed with displeasure. If he'd known there was a dog in the yard he might not have jumped over the fence. Actually, he probably would not have jumped over the fence.

The dog was creeping closer. Its growl was steady, deep and menacing. A warning growl. A _don't try anything stupid_ growl.

Joe knew all about dogs and their growls. As an MP he'd worked with plenty of dogs in the army. Working dogs were considered trained weapons. Their mission was to assist soldiers in their fight against the bad guys of the world.

The dogs Joe had worked with were trained to sniff for IED (improvised explosive devices), drugs, and weapons, and to attack when ordered. Joe and Wayne had stood guard duty many a time with dogs. Often the dogs proved to be more alert than their human counterparts. Nothing escaped their keen senses. How many times had a dog saved a human life? Joe could think of a few occasions and said a silent thank you to the heavens. God bless the military working dogs.

Joe, like most soldiers, had bonded with the dogs. Soldiers came to know each dog's favorite food and games. Most dogs liked to play fetch. The soldiers liked it, too. It was a good pastime, a nice way to relax and unwind in a war zone.

The soldiers learned each dog's body language, their distinctive whines and growls. Because of that intimate knowledge, Joe could say without a shadow of a doubt that this dog's growl said it didn't like Joe in its' backyard. Joe could also say without a doubt that if he made one wrong move, the dog would attack.

Joe lay perfectly still. That was the key. No sudden movements. Movement would set off the dog. It was the way attack dogs were trained. Any movement, resistance, or attempt to escape was to be met with force. Instant and violent force.

Joe blew out a breath and calmly said, "Hey, doggie. Good doggie." He kept his voice low, barely a whisper.

The dog whimpered and then growled.

"You don't want to hurt me. I'm a good guy. Well, mostly good. I know it looks bad, me coming over the fence. But I'm not going to hurt you." Or do anything stupid. Already did something stupid. That's why I'm lying here on the cold ground, getting chilled.

Joe lifted his head half an inch, just enough to see the dog. It was pacing down by his feet, trying to decide what to do next. Its owner wasn't here to give it commands. The dog was clearly unsure as to how to proceed. The dog saw Joe looking at it. Big mistake. It growled and bared its teeth. Threw its body forward and snapped its jaws at Joe, teeth flashing white in the darkness.

Joe dropped his head on the ground. "Okay. Okay. Take it easy. I'm not going to do anything." Joe's wish was to make it through the night without being bitten or mauled to death. A good goal, he thought. The best outcome he could hope for.

The dog's nose touched Joe's thigh and he felt the dog's nose sniff all along his leg to his foot. The dog jumped over him and sniffed the other leg and foot. All this sniffing seemed to excite the dog.

Probably not a good thing. "Listen," Joe said, a bit of pleading in his voice. The ground was hard and cold. A deep chill was seeping through his jeans. "I can't lay here all night. I'll be an icicle by morning."

The dog crept up by Joe's face, extended its muzzle, and sniffed. Joe watched from the corner of his eye, afraid to turn his head. He drew in a shallow breath and let it out slow and easy.

The dog whined, nudged Joe's shoulder with its head, and then bounded out of reach. It stood at a distance and barked, sharp and clear. Joe decided to risk a quick look. He lifted his head and gazed at the dog. There was a sort of pleading look in its eyes. The change in demeanor had Joe puzzled. The dog barked and trotted toward him.

Now what, Joe thought. He laid his head back on the ground and stayed perfectly still.

The dog nudged his arm and backed off.

Had that been a playful nudge? Joe cautiously lifted his head, half expecting the dog to lunge at him. It didn't. It stayed where it was and looked at him expectantly. Joe took a chance and propped himself on his elbows.

"You wanna play? Is that it?"

The dog came bounding at Joe, tail wagging like a helicopter blade. Joe put his forearms up in case the dog decided to get aggressive.

The dog circled round him, yelping and yapping. Joe sat up and watched, still perplexed. The dog was a beautiful black and tan German Shepard. A female. A good eighty-five pounds of pure muscle and murderous teeth.

And joy. Joe could see that now. The emotion. The dog was happy. Happy to see _him_.

"D-do I know you?"

The dog yelped as if to say, _Yes, you idiot. You know me_.

Joe held up his hands in surrender. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Calm down, girl. Let me get a good look at you."

The dog barked, a good bark. A _look at me_ bark. _Take a long look!_

Joe stared at the dog for a moment and there it was, a small distinctive feature. A notch on her right ear where a piece of shrapnel had torn through.

Joe's mouth hung open in disbelief. "Is that you, girl? Is that you, Bulka?"

The dog barked and ran in a circle around Joe. A victory lap in Joe's opinion. He'd finally figured out who the dog was and she was happy as a clam. Well, if clams could run and bounce and bark.

Joe slowly got on one knee. He brushed grass and dirt off his jeans. The dog was still running around him. He gave the dog the signal for sit and stay. She immediately sat in front of him and angled her head up, awaiting further orders. Yep, Joe thought, definitely a trained dog. Definitely Bulka. One of the dogs he and Wayne had worked with in Afghanistan. Their favorite dog.

"Good girl, Bulka. Good girl."

The dog gave two sharp barks and leaped at Joe. Tackled him to the ground and licked his face. Joe squirmed and tossed his head from side to side, trying to avoid the sandpaper tongue. It was a worthless endeavor. Bulka was determined to lavish Joe with all the love and affection she possessed. He couldn't really say he minded. He loved her right back. She'd seen him through some of his darkest times in Afghanistan. He reached up and ruffled the fur around her neck and ears.

"Okay, okay. That's enough, Bulka. C'mon, girl. Sit." Joe patted the ground beside him and Bulka reluctantly hopped off of him and sank down on the ground. She sat there panting, her front paws stretched out in front of her, her tongue hanging out.

Joe lay on the ground and contemplated this unexpected, happy reunion. He folded his hands together over his stomach and gazed at the gray night sky overhead.

"I guess Wayne – that'd be Sergeant Banyan to you – I guess he did all the paperwork and was able to adopt you. I knew you were getting ready to 'retire,' I just didn't know how soon."

Joe rolled his head and looked at Bulka. She appeared happy and well-fed. She had a good home in a safe place. She deserved every bit of that after all her tours in Afghanistan and Iraq. Dogs, like people, often developed PSTD. That made it difficult to find homes for them when their military service ended. Before Robby's Law in 2000 a lot of military working dogs were simply put down when their usefulness ended. Joe felt a stab of pain at the very idea.

He reached out a hand and patted Bulka's paw. "I'm glad Wayne got you. He loved you as much as I did." Joe shook his head. The words weren't completely true. "No, he loved you more. He went through all the time and effort to adopt you. I hear it isn't always easy."

Bulka laid her head on the ground and licked Joe's hand.

"Thanks," Joe said and returned his attention to the night sky. He wasn't really looking at the sky. He was staring into the distance, putting his thoughts in order, trying to make sense of things.

"I had dinner with Wayne tonight. He didn't mention you. Never said a word. Would've been nice to know he had you. The three of us did a lot of guard duty together in the desert. I would've loved to know he had you." Joe shrugged. "Guess it doesn't really matter. Just, well, it makes me wonder about those gloves being tossed over the fence."

Joe glanced at Bulka. Her head was on the ground, but her eyes showed she was alert and listening to him.

"You see, you would've found those gloves before the police. You would've shown Wayne those gloves first thing in the morning when he came home. Wouldn't you?"

Joe looked at Bulka like he was waiting for an answer. She responded with a questioning frown, an expression so typical of the breed. German Shepard's were loyal, inquisitive dogs possessed of a keen sense of smell and intelligence. There was no way on earth that Bulka would not have discovered the gloves. Bloody gloves! Even if she wasn't in the yard when they were tossed over, she would have sniffed them out the first time she was released into the yard and she would have alerted Wayne to them the first chance she got. Nothing would persuade Joe otherwise.

He went back to staring into space. A vague feeling of unease settled at the base of his brain. "It just doesn't make sense, Bulka." Absently, he stroked her paw. "I hate to say it, but Wayne might not've told me the whole truth."

Joe pushed himself into a sitting position. Bulka did the same. She frowned, cocked her head and stared at Joe with intense curiosity.

He got on one knee and stroked the dog's fur. "As much as I hate to, Bulka, I have to go. I need to plan my next move and get some sleep."

He hugged the dog to him. Wrapped his arm tight around her and kissed her head. Tears welled as memories of the past – their past – flooded his mind. Memories flashed before his mind's eye. They'd been through some harrowing experiences together. Joe sniffed back tears and stood. Had to wipe a stray tear away at the last second. Didn't want the dog to see him cry.

"I'll be back, girl. You can count on that." Parting was such sweet sorrow. Whoever said that knew what they were talking about.

Joe went over the fence the same way he'd come over it. A little more graceful this time. He landed on his feet which was a plus. He heard the dog whining softly on the other side and it broke his heart. He was leaving her again. It felt like a betrayal.

He put a hand on the fence and said, "I promise you, Bulka, I'll be back."

He turned to go. Trudged slowly through the alley, his hands in his jacket pockets. The dog was still whimpering. The sound tugged at his heart. He cast a glance over his shoulder and whispered, "Love you, girl. I'll be back."

Joe got to his truck and started it. Put his hands on the steering wheel and shook his head. Things weren't adding up the way they were supposed to. Joe had questions for Wayne Banyan. Serious questions. Questions he would ask tomorrow.

He put the truck in gear and drove to his hotel.

* * *

 _A/N: Special Note: This chapter is dedicated to the 'real' Bulka, a beautiful black and tan German Shepard MWD (military working dog). I was fortunate enough to adopt her after my service and hers ended. She lived a peaceful life, among a family of four, for many years before being laid to rest. She lives on in my heart. RIP, Bulka. I still miss you._

 _Thank you to everyone who has graciously left a review on this story. I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to respond to any of the reviews from the last chapter. I hope to do better in the future because I enjoy hearing what you think. Some of you brought us some good points. I'm looking at you Guest reviewer. :) Most things reviewers mentioned, or questioned, or wondered about will be addressed in the story. Thank you all!_


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Wednesday, the next day, Joe awoke at seven a.m. Seven a.m. counted as early for Joe. He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his thighs, and ran his hands through his short blond hair. Sleep had not come easy last night. Bulka had reminded him of Afghanistan and the dangers he'd faced there. House to house searches, gunfights, checkpoint inspections, and IEDs (improvised explosive devices) just to name a few. Not the best memories for a good night's sleep.

Then there was Wayne Banyan. He'd told Joe he had wanted to kill his stepfather. That was a scary thought in and of itself. However, Wayne claimed he hadn't done it. Someone had beat him to it. Joe had to wonder, was that true? Had someone _else_ really killed Wayne's stepfather? Or was it a story designed to throw the blame elsewhere.

Another thing rankled Joe. Wayne hadn't told him about Bulka. Why had Wayne left out such important information? He and Wayne had served two tours together in Afghanistan. Surely Wayne knew that Bulka was as near and dear to Joe's heart as to Wayne's. Even if Wayne hadn't realized how much Joe cared, shouldn't he have mentioned Bulka at dinner last night? Said something like, "Hey, good news, I got Bulka. I did all the paperwork and adopted her."

Getting Bulka made Wayne a hero in Joe's book. Not telling Joe about it, well, that made him less heroic. Less honest? Joe hated the very thought. If you couldn't trust your partner, your client, who could you trust?

Okay, enough wallowing in this minutiae. Joe pushed to his feet. He stood a respectable six feet tall and weighed 215 pounds, most of it muscle, honed in real combat and weekly training. He viewed the world through sky blue eyes. There was brightness there, in his eyes, but a closer look revealed a hidden darkness and bitter sadness. Joe's past had not been easy or kind. He'd learned to accept that. It made him tougher and stronger. At least, that's what he told himself.

If he'd been at home he would go on a two mile run. Not that he liked running because he didn't. In the army they'd had to run everywhere. To chow, to PT (physical training), to formations, etc, etc. Running had become second nature. He'd found there were benefits to running and so kept it a part of his weekly training. Running built endurance and best of all, it required little thought. He could run and think about other things. It was also a good way to clear his mind.

If he'd been at home, he'd go to the gym after his run. Do a few rounds with the punching bag. Nothing relieved frustration like throwing punches. Good, hard, solid punches. His brother, Frank, preferred the martial arts. Frank taught a martial arts class two days a week at the gym. Joe attended the class on occasion, mainly when he wanted to work on his kicks. Kicks were a great addition to any fighter's arsenal. After class, Joe would go a few rounds on the bag, delivering bone shattering kicks. It was all about building stamina and speed.

Yes, punching bags were a good way to work off aggression and frustration. Sometimes, Joe needed that release. Like now. Now, however, the gym would have to wait. It was time to shower, shave, and get some breakfast. Then head over to the police department and hopefully meet with Detective Ziegler, the detective in charge of the Dan Sagget case.

Forty minutes later Joe was in the hotel lobby enjoying a breakfast of scrambled eggs, bagels, and coffee. While he waited for his coffee to cool and the cheese on his eggs to melt, he called the Healy Police Department and asked for Detective Ziegler. Good news, Ziegler was in. More good news, Ziegler agreed to meet with Joe in an hour. The day was starting off on the right foot. Hopefully, it would continue that way.

# # # #

Joe got to the Police Department right on time. It was a small building in a small town. Not much manpower here. In any big crisis they'd have to call in help from neighboring towns. Joe wondered how many murder investigations this police department had handled. He pushed through the glass door and walked up to a long narrow counter. A pretty female police officer sat behind the counter. She rose as Joe approached. She was pretty _and_ short. Couldn't be more than five-foot-three.

Joe smiled at her and laid his hands on the narrow counter. "I'm here to see Detective Ziegler. He's expecting me. Name's Joseph Hardy."

The pretty officer returned his smile. "I'll let him know you're here." She picked up a desk phone and punched in some numbers. Told whoever answered that their appointment was here and hung up. Her smile reappeared as she looked at Joe again. "I'll take you back to his office. Follow me."

Joe followed. The officer led him down a hall, around a corner, and stopped.

"First door on the left," she said. "I have to get back to the desk."

Joe watched her disappear around the corner and then walked up to the first door on the left. It was open. A man in his mid-thirties sat behind a desk, flipping through a file. He was a big bear of a man. Thick neck, broad shoulders, and big hands.

He looked up and saw Joe standing in the doorway. "Joseph Hardy?"

"That's me." Joe stepped into the tiny office.

The man behind the desk rose and extended a hand. "Detective Ziegler."

Joe shook Ziegler's big paw. Ziegler had short, brown hair and dark, cunning eyes. His big frame was going to fat, getting thick around the waist. Certainly wouldn't get top scores on the army physical training test.

Ziegler sat back down and said, "How's it going?"

Joe remained standing. "Can't complain."

"How can I help you, Mr. Hardy?" There was a little impatience in Ziegler's voice. To him, Joe was a nuisance, a minor interruption in his busy day.

"I'm looking into the Dan Sagget murder. His step-son, Wayne Banyan, hired me to investigate."

"Did he?" Ziegler looked up at Joe, a spark of interest shone in his dark eyes. "Have a seat." Ziegler nodded his chin at a chair in front of his desk.

Joe plopped into the chair. He had Ziegler's attention now which was good.

"How did Wayne Banyan happen upon you?" Ziegler was frowning and squinting, wanting to know Wayne and Joe's connection.

"We knew each other in the army," Joe said. "We were MPs. Served together in Afghanistan. I'm a private investigator now. I have an office in River Heights."

Ziegler looked at Joe as if to say, and that qualifies you to be an investigator in the civilian world, in a murder case? Joe would have to admit there was some truth to that sentiment. The situations Ziegler faced were woefully different than what Joe had faced during his military time.

"I'm not here to step on your toes," Joe said, playing peacemaker. "I'm just trying to piece together the facts and come to a conclusion."

Ziegler's mouth scrunched up a bit – like he'd tasted something sour – then relaxed. He leaned back in his chair and folded his big hands on his lap. "How well do you know Wayne Banyan? I mean _really_ know him?"

Tough question, Joe thought. If Ziegler had asked him that yesterday afternoon his answer would be entirely different.

Joe grimaced and said, "Wayne was kind of a 'keep to himself' type of guy. Didn't say much. Kept his gear neat and orderly. Made sure the rest of us did, too. He had your back in a combat situation. You could count on him one hundred percent when the bullets started flying." Joe's face hardened as he stared directly into Ziegler's eyes. "He was an outstanding soldier."

"Great." Ziegler smirked and stared hard back at Joe. He sensed Joe was tip-toeing around the issue. Joe had talked about Wayne as a soldier, not as a friend. "So, he was a good soldier. That doesn't mean he wouldn't whack his stepfather in a fit of rage."

Joe heaved in a breath and let it out. "You might be right, but Wayne swears he didn't do it and I believe him." That might actually be a lie and Joe felt bad for saying it to a police detective.

Ziegler put his folded hands on the desk and leaned forward. "You and Wayne were good buddies in the army?"

Joe shifted in his chair. "Well, not exactly buddies. Like I said, Wayne was a private person. Real quiet. Kept to himself, didn't hang out with the guys at night."

Ziegler smiled briefly. "Pardon me for saying this, but it seems to me you don't really know Wayne as well as you think you do. You didn't know him when he was young, did you? You haven't talked to his family yet, have you?"

Joe felt the heat behind Ziegler's glare. "No, haven't talked to anyone yet, other than Wayne."

"Other than Wayne," Ziegler mocked. "Yeah, well, he might not be the best source of information." Ziegler shoved the file he'd been thumbing through when Joe arrived across his desk. "Take a look. Lots of people to talk to. Lots of people who know Wayne Banyan a whole lot better than you or me. People who've known him his whole life. They have some interesting things to say about him."

Joe scooted closer to the desk and peered down at the open file. Ziegler had done his due diligence. A list of names with phone numbers and addresses filled the page. Each name was annotated with a date, place, and time of an interview. Joe was impressed. Ziegler was working the case hard.

Joe lifted his head. "You've done your homework. Can I have a copy of this page?" He tapped the sheet of paper with his knuckles.

"Nope." Ziegler smiled as Joe frowned. "But, hey, I need a cup of coffee. How 'bout you? You want a cup of coffee?"

"No, thanks." Joe's frown deepened as Ziegler rose and headed to the door.

"I'm going to get a cup of coffee. While I'm gone you might want to copy down some of those names and numbers. I'm not saying you're going to do that, you know. I'm not even suggesting it."

Joe nodded. He understood what Ziegler was saying. Ziegler didn't want to overtly give away police evidence and that's what his notes were. He'd put in the time and effort to find people and interview them. Fortunately for Joe, Ziegler was willing to let Joe use the names and phone numbers. That information alone would save Joe valuable time.

Ziegler closed the office door and Joe took out his phone. A picture was worth a thousand words. Why copy down the names and numbers when he could take a picture?

An hour and a half later Joe was headed into one of the poorer neighborhoods in Healy. Single and doublewide trailers lined the rutted, gravel lane. Joe couldn't in good conscious call it a _street_. That would be an insult to streets everywhere and would imply some sort of city maintenance. A grader hadn't touched these roads in years. Snow, ice, and hard rain had all taken their toll. Joe cursed softly as he maneuvered his truck over and around the worst ruts.

Finally, he came to a weathered, faded trailer. It looked like the elements had beaten it into submission. It still stood merely out of habit. A rotting, wooden porch jutted out and offered a covered path to the front door.

Joe parked in front of the trailer, got out of his truck, and shut the door. He'd arrived at the home of Dolores Gage. Once upon a time she'd been Dolores Sagget. Before that Dolores Banyan. And if Joe's quick research was correct, she'd started life as Dolores Mueller. Bottom line, she was Wayne's mother.

The front door of the trailer opened and a woman in her mid-to-late fifties poked her head out. Her eyes narrowed when she saw Joe standing beside his truck. "You that detective that called a little while ago?"

Joe held up a hand in greeting. "That would be me. Joseph Hardy. And you would be Dolores Gage?"

"That's me," the woman said grudgingly as though it pained her to admit it.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to ask you a few questions," Joe said.

The woman stepped onto the rotting porch and let the screen door bang shut behind her. She planted her feet, crossed her arms over her chest, and struck a defiant pose. Joe got the impression she didn't much care for the police. He thought her life had probably been spent avoiding the police. Now, however, her ex-husband had been murdered and she was forced to answer questions from the police.

The woman's voice was sharp and bitter, "Police and detectives already been out here asking all kinds of questions."

"I know." Joe walked casually toward the porch steps. "I promise not to take up too much of your time, Mrs. Gage. I just have a few questions about your ex-husband, Dan Sagget." And a few about your son, too. But we'll get to those later.

The woman stood her ground. "Like I said, police already been here and asked a bunch of questions. How many times am I gonna have to answer the same damn questions?"

Joe laid a hand on the stair railing and looked up at the woman. "Probably until we find out who killed Dan Sagget."

The woman rolled her eyes in a dramatic gesture as if to say she highly doubted that was ever going to happen.

Joe climbed the stairs and motioned to two plastic chairs on the porch. "Can we sit?"

The woman shrugged her shoulders – another dramatic gesture – ran a hand over her coarse, gray hair and sighed. "Sure. Why not?"

Yeah, why not, Joe thought. He withdrew a notebook and pen from his jacket and sat on one of the chairs. He cleared his throat and said, "Ahem, I want to be perfectly honest with you, Mrs. Gage. Your son, Wayne, hired me to investigate Dan Sagget's murder."

Dolores Gage's eyebrows rose high on her forehead. She was shocked to put it mildly and intrigued. "Why in the hell would Wayne do that? He hated Dan. Why does Wayne care who killed Dan?"

"Maybe because the police consider Wayne a suspect. A very _good_ suspect for Dan Sagget's murder."

Dolores Gage considered this information for a moment and seemed to come to a decision. "Well, I can't say as I blame them. Wayne _is_ the most logical suspect."

Joe was taken aback. "Is he? Why do you say that?"

Dolores looked at Joe as though he was thick-headed. "Like I said, Wayne hated Dan." Tension laced her voice and a trickle of concern knotted her brow. "Who exactly are you and how do you know my son?"

Joe rested his notepad on his thigh. "I knew your son in the army. We worked together. He found out I'm currently a private investigator and asked me to help. I'm here to help your son clear his name."

Dolores settled back in her plastic chair, looking less concerned. "Well, I'm glad Wayne's got somebody in his corner." She rubbed the side of her nose and thought, maybe she shouldn't be talking to this young PI, but dammit, there were things she wanted to get off her chest. "Listen, Dan wasn't exactly nice to Wayne. Wayne had plenty of reasons to kill Dan."

Joe peered deep into Dolores Gage's bloodshot eyes, the wrinkles hard at the corners. "I'd like to hear some of those reasons."

Dolores Gage seemed to get antsy. She squirmed in her chair. Joe hoped she wasn't about to change her mind about talking to him. He laid a hand gently on the woman's forearm.

"Mrs. Gage, whatever you tell me, stays with me. Your information will not be shared with anyone. I'm not working with the police or the detectives assigned to the case. I'm working alone."

Dolores cocked her head and gave Joe a skeptical look. "For real?"

"For real." Joe's hand remained on her arm and he wore his most sincere expression.

Dolores visibly relaxed. Joe figured it was not unusual for her to flit between extreme highs and lows. Might be bi-polar was his guess.

"Hey, you want a beer .. or .. or water," she said. A drink, that's what she needed, a drink to mellow her out. Get rid of all this tension she was feeling.

"No, ma'am. I'm fine."

"I could use a beer. Mind if I get one?"

"No, go right ahead. I'll sit here and wait." Joe knew the signs. Mrs. Gage probably wasn't taking any prescribed medication for whatever ailed her, be it bi-polar disorder or something else. Instead, she self-medicated and beer appeared to be her drug of choice.

"I'll be right back," she said and practically skipped into the trailer. She was as good as her word and returned in less than a minute, beer can in hand. She held it up for Joe to see like it was a prize, then took a long swallow and plopped in her chair. "God, I needed that."

Joe smiled kindly. "You were going to tell me why Wayne hated his stepfather."

"Yeah." Mrs. Gage suddenly became sad. Remorse and maybe even grief flickered across her lined face. "It's nothing I'm proud of, mind you. Truth is, the honest to god's truth is, I was a bad mother." She cast Joe an inquiring glance. "Did Wayne ever tell you that? That I was a bad mother."

Joe shook his head. "No, ma'am. Never." Wayne never mentioned her at all or the rest of his family. Joe figured Dolores Gage didn't need to hear that.

"What I mean is," Dolores said, "is that I wasn't an involved parent. I didn't try to run my kids' lives, ya know. I kinda left them to their own devices. It's better that way. Makes them independent." She looked at Joe to make sure he wasn't judging her. Apparently, she liked what she saw and smiled a little and said, "I have two kids. Did you know that?"

"Yes, I did. You have a daughter, Connie. She's older than Wayne and still lives in town."

Dolores looked at Joe as if to say, you know all that?

Joe added, by way of explanation, "I'm an investigator. I investigate. It's how I help my client and Wayne's my client. I need to know why he'd want to kill Dan Sagget."

Dolores sipped some of her beer and rested the can on the arm of her chair. Her heavily veined hand held the can tightly so it wouldn't tip. "Okay, well, here's the thing." She wiped an imaginary drop from her lip. "Dan was hard on Wayne. Wayne was just a kid back then. Bout eight or nine years old when I hooked up with Dan. Dan moved in and we got married not long after that. Dan was good to me. He made enough money to pay the bills and keep us in food."

And beer, Joe thought. Dolores stared off into the distance, seeing her past, a past Joe could tell she didn't like revisiting.

"The thing was, Dan found fault in others. Men and boys. Especially little boys." Dolores looked uncomfortable. "Wayne didn't quite live up to Dan's idea of a son. They never took to one another if you know what I mean. Looking back, I'd say Dan was too hard on the boy. He .. he hit him sometimes."

Joe sensed there was more to the story. "What exactly do you mean by, hit him?"

Dolores squirmed in her chair and took a long sip of her beer. Finally, she said, "Dan beat him." She nodded sadly, regretfully. "Beat him pretty bad sometimes. But you see, Wayne was a stubborn kid and defiant. Dan would want something done and Wayne would ignore him. There were times I thought Wayne intentionally provoked Dan. Like maybe Wayne wanted a beating. Well, he'd get one and Dan never went easy, I can tell you that." She shook her head violently like she was slinging away a distasteful thought. "Good God, I hate talking about this. It turns my stomach every time I think about it."

"Did you ever report Dan to the police? What you described could be considered child abuse." Joe's chest was tight. He felt for Wayne. Really felt for him. What kind of childhood had he endured? How bad had the beatings been? And had no one done anything to stop them?

"Police?" Dolores looked at Joe as if he were crazy. "Why would I call them? Dan was just disciplining Wayne. All dads do that. My own dad did it with me and my brother. Nothing wrong in a little discipline." Now she was self-righteous or trying to be. "I mean, yeah, I thought Dan was a little harsh at times, may have hit Wayne too hard and for too long, but-but I didn't see nothing to call the police about."

Joe shook his head, partly in disbelief and partly in thinking how sad and awful one person's life could be. If Joe needed a reason for Wayne killing his stepfather, he had it. Abuse triggered all kinds of responses. Murder being one of the many. Was this what Detective Ziegler had discovered? The childhood abuse. Probably so and it was a very good motive for murder.

* * *

 _A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews. Those do inspire me to continue. And thank you for your comments regarding Bulka. She will continue to play a role in this story. :)_


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Joe was on the road again, driving to another rundown neighborhood on another rundown, ungraded road. This time he was headed to Wayne's sister's house. Dolores Gage had given Joe Connie Marshall's address and phone number. Dolores claimed she had no idea who would want to kill her ex-husband. Joe found that hard to believe, but didn't push it. He could always come back to Dolores later if needed.

Joe replayed Dolores Gage's comments in his mind as he drove. She'd said Dan Sagget was a _decent_ husband. Decent being the key word here. He'd been a good provider. A man who lived hard, played hard, and loved hard. Those were her exact words. She and Dan were married for about ten years and they separated shortly after Wayne went in the army. Dolores claimed she was the one to leave. She'd found out Dan was seeing someone behind her back. No, she didn't know who it was. Best she could tell, it was someone younger and prettier. Dolores had felt a lot of resentment about that and decided to pack up and leave for good.

She'd smiled a little when she told Joe the story. Said she wasn't exactly heartbroken about the break up. She was seeing someone on the side, too. Her current husband, Randy Gage. She and Randy got married right after her divorce from Dan Sagget was finalized.

What a messed up bunch of people, Joe thought. No wonder Wayne never talked about his family. He had nothing to be proud of and plenty to be angry about. Abuse and neglect to name a few. Wayne probably joined the army to get as far away from his family as possible. Joe couldn't blame him, but it did beg the question of, why come back here when Wayne's military service ended? Wayne could have stayed in the army and made it a career. Why not choose that option?

The questions for Wayne were piling up. Joe hoped to have dinner with Wayne tonight and ask some of those questions.

Joe came to an intersection, checked both ways, and turned right. According to Dolores, Connie's house was down this road. Fourth house on the left, she'd said. Joe wondered what Connie would have to say about her brother and her stepfather.

Joe pulled up and parked next to a rust-eaten car in front of a weather beaten trailer. This trailer was smaller than the one he'd recently left. A strong wind might collapse the whole thing. Dolores had told him that Connie currently lived alone. Currently being the key word. Lots of key words with these folks.

A small, wooden porch jutted out around the front door. It had no cover or railings. Its sole purpose was to get a person from the ground to the front door. Something Joe estimated it barely accomplished. He tentatively placed a foot on the first stair, felt it sink beneath his weight and finally hold. Well, if the stairs broke, he wouldn't have far to fall.

The front screen door opened as he stepped onto the porch. A slender woman of thirty-four stood in the doorway. She leaned a shoulder against the door frame and assessed him through narrowed eyes. She took a drag on a cigarette, blew out a plume of smoke, and said, "You that detective that called?"

"Technically, I'm a private investigator. Your brother, Wayne, hired me to look into the murder of Dan Sagget." Joe had told Connie all of this on the phone, but figured it never hurt to reiterate the important details. Especially when you were asking people questions about their family. Joe also figured, much like her mother, Connie abhorred the police. Best to let her know, he _wasn't_ the police.

Connie made a face. "My brother? Why's he care if Dan's dead. I'd think he'd be happy. That old creep hated Wayne." She stepped out onto the porch. "Wanna sit on the steps?" She pointed at the rackety stairs that had miraculously conveyed Joe to the porch. "I'd invite you in, but the house's a bit messy. You caught me off guard, showing up unannounced and all." The accusation in her voice was softened by a seductive smile.

Joe could see her in a bar, using that smile to get a free drink or two. Five years ago, Connie would have been considered pretty. Now? Not so much. The years – and hard living – had not been kind to her. Lines gathered at the corners of her mouth and eyes. Her skin was pale and dry. Her hair over-processed.

"Steps work for me," Joe said.

They lowered themselves and sat side by side on the top step.

"How's Wayne know you?" Connie asked and took another drag on her cigarette.

"We were in the army together. You ever talk to Wayne about his army service?"

Connie looked at Joe as if he'd stepped in dog pooh. "Me and Wayne aren't close. Never were. He's six years younger than me. He was in elementary school when I was in high school. We didn't exactly travel in the same circles if you know what I mean."

"I know what you mean." Joe shifted on the rotted boards and hoped he didn't get a splinter in his ass. That would be a hell of a thing to have to go to the doctor for. He pulled a card from his pants pocket and handed it to Connie. "My card. Name's Joseph Hardy. I'd like to ask you a few questions about Dan Sagget."

Connie took the card, scrunched up her face and peered at it. She stared at the card so hard Joe wondered if she needed glasses. Finally, she nodded, ground out her cigarette on the wooden porch, and flicked the butt onto the ground. Joe tracked the arc of the butt to the ground and saw a grouping of butts scattered among the gravel and weeds. The picture told a story. Connie didn't have much to do in her life. Joe surmised she often sat here on the porch steps, smoking, watching her neighbors, and whiling away the day. Meeting him was probably the highlight of her week.

"Don't know what I can tell you about Dan," Connie said. "You ask me, he was a world class douchebag."

"I'd like specifics. Can you tell me some things he did that made him a douchebag?"

Connie shot Joe a surly look. "You mean other than beatin' the crap outta my brother?"

"Yeah, like that," Joe countered. "Your mother mentioned the beatings, too. How did you feel about them? You ever think about reporting the abuse to a school counselor?"

Joe sensed Connie withdraw a little, like a turtle tucking its head in its shell. She didn't want any blame – past or present – for what had happened to her brother. "No, not really. I mean, the beatings weren't _that_ bad. I .. I wasn't home much. I'm really just telling you what my boyfriend back then said."

"Your boyfriend? He got a name?" Joe pulled his notepad out of his jacket pocket along with a pen.

Connie became wary, her natural instinct to deny and hide rose to the surface hard and fast. "You're not gonna write all this down, are you? I don't want no body comin' round here accusing me of saying stuff about them. People round here can get ugly. I don't need none of that."

"I only need a name. Your boyfriend's name. I'd like to talk to him. See what he has to say about Dan Sagget. I'll tell him I got his name from the police. He'll never know you said a word. I give you my solemn promise." Joe held up three fingers – imitating the Boy Scout Oath – and gave Connie his _I'm dead serious_ face.

Connie's eyes darted around. Joe could tell she didn't know whether to believe him or not. Trust didn't come easy in her life of poor choices.

"Please," Joe said gently. "Our conversation doesn't go past this porch. The police don't even know I'm here."

"You're not bs-ing me, are you? I've had guys tell me all sorts of things just so they could .. you know, so they could get what they want."

Yeah, Joe thought, come on lines were a regular scenario in Connie's life and he bet she fell for them more often than not.

"I'm not that type of guy." Joe pretended to be mildly offended and then softened and said, "I give you my word. I took an oath to uphold the constitution of the United States when I joined the army. I swore to defend this country from all enemies foreign and domestic. Dan Sagget may have been a scumbag, but whoever killed him is an enemy to this country. More importantly, he's a menace to the citizens of this town. He might be out there now, plotting more murders. I'd like to catch him before he commits another."

"Y-you think whoever killed Dan might kill again?" Connie leaned away from Joe and looked at him askew.

"In my experience, killers don't always stop at one killing. Sometimes, they find they enjoy killing, especially if they don't get caught. Other times the killings are personal, they've got list of people they want to kill. People who have wronged them. For all we know, Dan Sagget might have been the first name on a list."

Connie stared at Joe with wide, horrified eyes. "Do you think whoever killed Dan might .. might want to kill me?"

Joe could see that he'd scared her, really scared her. He hadn't meant to, but maybe that was good. It never hurt to be scared. "I don't know. I'm just saying what if. What if this killer isn't finished yet?"

The expression on Connie's face told Joe he needed to move this interview back on topic – back to Dan Sagget.

"Hey," Joe said, his tone calm and soothing. "I'm an investigator. I'm trained to consider all the _what ifs_. Doesn't mean any of them are true. Everything's just speculation at this point." He gave a shrug of nonchalance. "Dan Sagget was most likely the killer's only target." He cocked his head and studied Connie. Had that eased her fears? He saw a little of the tension leave her body.

"Yeah." Connie let out sigh. "Yeah, you're probably right. Knowing Dan, he pissed somebody off."

Joe smiled. The conversation was back on track.

"Tell me about Dan," he said. "Can you name anybody in particular he could've pissed off?"

Connie talked, but she didn't have a lot to say. To her, Dan seemed angry all the time. Honestly though, she hadn't seen much of him. She had a job and a boyfriend and used both to escape home as much as possible. Of course, that left Wayne home alone with Dan and their mom. No, her mom wouldn't have been much help back then. She spent most of her days drinking. Just like now, Joe thought ruefully.

Dolores Gage (Sagget back then) never held a steady job according to her daughter. Once in a great while Dolores would apply for a job, mainly when Dan started ranting about money. The lack of it. Dolores drank a lot of it away and Dan contributed his fair share. He was no slouch in the drinking department.

Connie said that Dolores and Dan lived paycheck to paycheck, just barely squeaking by. Maybe that was why Dan always seemed angry. They were always trying to stretch a buck. Connie said her mom would, on occasion, get a job and work for a few weeks, or days, and quit.

"Working just wasn't in her blood," Connie said with a huff and a morose shake of her head.

Joe wondered if working was in Connie's blood. From what Wayne had told him at dinner, working didn't appear to be something Connie had taken a liking to either.

"That's why my mom liked to be married," Connie said. "She got married so she wouldn't have to work. Working was the husband's job according to her."

Joe nodded his understanding and steered the conversation back to his main interest. "It's Dan I need to know more about. You said he'd probably pissed somebody off. Tell me more about that. Did Dan have a habit of pissing people off?"

"Yeah, best I could tell. He was always going on about someone he'd gotten into it with at work." Her face suddenly clouded and a faraway look shone in her eyes. "I never thought of this before, but maybe, when Dan came home at night, he took all that anger out on Wayne." She turned to Joe. "What do you think?"

Joe snorted and nodded sadly. "I think it's very possible. Can you name any of the people Dan didn't get along with? Someone he had a grudge against or a long standing depute with."

Connie thought about it for a full minute. Finally, she gave up and shrugged. "Sorry, nothing's coming to me. Like I told you, I didn't hang around the house if I could help it. The minute Dan came home, I split if I wasn't already gone."

Lucky for you, Joe thought. She could leave any time she wanted. Wayne had not had that option.

"Where'd Dan work back then?"

"Same place he works at now. Down on the docks. For .. um, give me a minute, I know I've seen his name on signs around town. Oh, yeah, Nicholson. He's got a bunch of warehouses on the docks. He's like the richest man around here. Owns half the docks I think."

Connie smiled, clearly impressed with her ability to pull a name out of thin air. It was a magic trick.

Kyle Nicholson. Joe frowned down at his notepad, to the page he had opened it to. Nicholson's name was right there, right at the top with Randy Gage. The two men Joe needed to interview the most, but first, he needed background information on them. He would circle back to these two later, after he knew more about them, after he had the lay of the land so to speak.

* * *

 _A/N: Thank you so much for the lovely reviews. I'm happy to hear that you like/appreciate this capable, hardened Joe and his depth and complexity. All things I'm trying to portray, all while keeping you wondering who the murder is. :) Thanks again._


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Joe was on his way to his third interview of the day. This time to see Jason Becker, Connie Marshall's old boyfriend. They'd only dated for eighteen months, she'd said. Jason was a year older than her and he'd joined the army right after graduating high school. He and Connie had kept in touch for almost a year after he left. Then the letters slowed to a trickle and eventually stopped. It hadn't broken her heart. She'd started seeing someone else the minute Jason mentioned the possibility of re-upping. Her defense; she couldn't spend her life waiting for him to decide what he might or might not do. They'd never talked about marriage before he left so, basically, things just fizzled out between them.

"Probably for the best," she'd said with a sad smile and Joe had thought she was probably right.

Although, looking at her now, he wouldn't have said her life had turned out for the best.

Joe's focus went back to the street. Yup, he was on a real street with nice shiny stop signs, not ones that had served as target practice for a twelve-gauge shotgun. There was a lot to be said for real, honest-to-goodness streets. First of all, they were flat and smooth which made for a better ride all the way around. Next, they had two lanes with painted lines that kept everyone where they were supposed to be. And last but not least; there were no rocks kicking up, chipping the paint on his truck.

Joe came to the address he'd been looking for and pulled into a driveway. Score another one for civilization. An actual, real driveway. Joe was in front of a nice house on a nice residential street. The front yard was tiny, but nicely maintained.

Joe had called ahead. Jason had sounded cordial on the phone if a bit hesitant. He was at work but quitting time was less than an hour away. Could Joe wait an hour for Jason to get home? If so, Jason would meet him at his house, although honestly, he didn't see how he could help Joe in his investigation. He'd only known Wayne Banyan briefly and that was almost twenty years ago when Wayne was a kid.

"Just give me a few minutes of your time," Joe had said. "You never know, we might shake something loose."

Jason had sighed audibly and agreed.

So, here Joe was in front of Jason Becker's house. Joe, himself, wasn't sure what Jason could add to the investigation, but information sometimes came from the most unlikely sources.

Joe walked up to the front door and rang the bell. An attractive woman of around thirty-three opened the door.

Joe introduced himself, "Hi, I'm Joseph Hardy. I'm here to talk to your husband."

"Yes, Jason called and said you'd be stopping by. I'm Alison, Jason's wife. Jason's not home yet. Something came up at work at the last minute." She smiled sagely. "That's not unusual. Something's always coming up at the last minute on the docks."

"Docks? He works on the docks?"

"Yeah, didn't he tell you that?" Alison looked at Joe curiously.

"No, but I didn't ask where he worked. It's not really important." Although, Joe thought, in a way it was.

Alison Becker opened the door wider and stepped aside. "Come on in. Can I get you something to drink? Water, tea, or maybe something harder?" She giggled at that last part and Joe instantly liked her. She seemed fun, down-to-earth, and easy going.

"Water would be nice," Joe said and stepped into the house.

Alison closed the door and Joe scanned the tastefully decorated living room. Nothing fancy, durable fabrics on the sofa and chair. Standard grade carpeting. Then Joe spotted the two kids, a boy of eight and a girl of five. They stood in an arched opening that led to the kitchen and dining room and they were staring at him. Joe guessed the Beckers didn't get many strangers.

The little girl pointed and said, "Who's that?" Her eyes were bright and inquisitive

The boy nudged his sister in the shoulder and scowled at her. "It's rude to ask," he reprimanded her.

A grin tugged at the corner of Alison's lips as she crossed her arms and gave her kids, _the look_. "I thought I told you two to stay in the family room."

Joe smiled to himself. Everyone knew _the look_ , the one that said you weren't doing what mom told you to do. Moms the world over had perfected _the look_.

The little girl was quick with a response, "Bobby says he gets the bigger cookie cuz he's bigger 'n me." The little girl's posture and expression made it clear she did not deem this a satisfactory arrangement.

Alison bent at the waist and motioned her daughter closer. "You know, Maddie, Bobby's right. Bigger people have to eat more than smaller people. Food is fuel for the body just like gas is fuel for our car. Bigger people need more fuel than smaller people. Look at daddy and me. Daddy is bigger than me and he eats more food than I do."

"A lot more," Bobby put in, beaming at his mother, pride flickering in his eyes. She'd stood up for him. He'd been afraid she was going to discipline him about the cookie, but she hadn't and he loved her with all of his little boy heart for it. She could see he wasn't trying to be unfair or take advantage of his sister. Well, not really.

Joe watched the interaction between Alison and her children and his thoughts turned to Vanessa. One day, he and Vanessa would have children. They'd talked about it. Vanessa wanted one of each – a boy and a girl. Joe kind of did, too. Although, honestly, he couldn't imagine himself with a little girl. Joe Hardy with a daughter? A precious little girl? That would take some getting used to.

But Joe had no doubts Vanessa would be every bit as understanding, kind, and caring as he could see Alison was.

Alison had finished talking to Maddie and sent the kids back to the family room. A wave of her hand directed Joe to follow her. She led him into the dining room, sat him at the table, handed him a glass of cool water – which he gratefully took – and placed a plate of freshly baked cookies on the table. Add efficiency to Alison's growing list of attributes.

The cookies smelled heavenly and Joe's mouth watered. He had visions of soft chocolate chips melting in his mouth surrounded by sugary goodness.

He drank some of the water to take his mind off of the cookies and checked his watch. Jason should be home soon. Joe couldn't risk a mouthful of cookie, not with an interviewee due to show up any minute. Another sip of water to take the edge off and the kitchen door opened, the door that led to the garage. In walked Jason looking tired and flustered. He spotted Joe seated at the dining room table and nodded at him.

Joe rose and extended a hand as Jason approached. "Joseph Hardy."

"Sorry to keep you waiting." Jason shook Joe's hand. "Something came up at work."

"So your wife said."

Jason was about Joe's height and solidly built. His handshake was strong and confident. A bicep bulged beneath the sleeve of his T-shirt. Joe figured Jason didn't ride a desk for a living. His job had to be something physical, something that kept him in shape.

The men released hands and Joe said, "You work on the docks?"

"Yeah, forklift operator most of the time. Heavy lifter the rest of the time." Jason shrugged. "It pays the bills and Kyle Nicholson is a good guy to work for. Never complains if you need time off to attend a parent-teacher conference or take a sick kid to the doctor. He understands about family and emergencies."

Alison laid a cutting board and vegetables on the kitchen counter. She added, with a smile, "He gives great Christmas bonuses, too."

"He does," Jason said. "Can we talk in here or would you prefer some place more private?"

"Here's fine," Joe said.

"Daddy!" Maddie ran across the room.

Jason scooped her up as she flew into his open arms. The ear-to-ear grin on Jason's face said it all. He was living the life he wanted. He had it all, a beautiful, loving wife, and two great kids. Joe felt a small pang of jealousy. He reminded himself, one day, he too, would have all of this. The beautiful, loving wife part was already assured.

Jason kissed Maddie on the top of her head and asked, "You been behaving yourself, munchkin?"

Bobby had entered the room, tentative, and stoic. He held himself straight and tall, like a man, and looked up at his father with love and admiration. Joe could see that Bobby aspired to be like his father when he grew up.

"I let Bobby have the bigger cookie," Maddie announced.

"Well, that was big of you," Jason said and looked over at his son.

Alison cleared her throat. "Ahem, I believe we had to have a discussion about bigger people needing more food than smaller people."

"And Bobby's bigger 'n me," Maddie said ignoring the implication in her mother's statement.

"He is," Jason agreed and set Maddie on her feet on the floor. He reached for his son and ruffled the boy's hair. "How you doing, partner? Your homework all finished?"

'Yessir, can I play in the backyard?"

Jason tipped his head toward his wife. "If your mom says it's okay."

Alison looked up from chopping vegetables. "As long as you stay in the yard. Dinner will be ready soon."

"Okay." Bobby turned to leave.

Maddie rushed to her brother's side. "Me, too!"

Bobby looked at his father and mother as if to say, does she have to come, too?

"Watch after your sister," his father said, bestowing an unwanted responsibility on his young son.

Bobby's face fell.

Alison quickly said, "Maddie, you mind your brother. Do as he says, you hear?"

Bobby's face brightened at this. "She will. C'mon Maddie. I'll push you on the swing."

Joe realized that Alison had saved the situation with a few words. She'd seen the look on Bobby's face and correctly read his resentment. Why did he always have to watch his little sister? However, Alison's words had changed the dynamic. Yes, Bobby still had to watch his sister, but Maddie bore a responsibility, too. She had listen and obey her brother. _He_ was in charge.

Joe felt as if he was learning a lot about raising children and there was a lot more to it than he'd ever realized.

Jason opened the refrigerator and grabbed a beer. "You want one?" he asked Joe.

"No, thanks. Water's fine."

The men sat at the dining room table. Alison stayed at the counter, chopping vegetables, casting fugitive glances at the men. Joe knew she was interested in what he came to say, what questions he came to ask. He didn't mind her listening. She'd already provided him with a valuable piece of information, the fact that Jason worked on the docks. Dan Sagget had worked there, too. Last night, Wayne had said Kyle Nicholson was Dan Sagget's boss. Joe wanted to know; had Jason worked with Dan Sagget?

Joe took out his notepad and pen and laid them on the table. "First, let me properly introduce myself. I'm a private investigator. Wayne Banyan has hired me to investigate the murder of his stepfather, Dan Sagget."

An expression clouded Jason's face. Joe couldn't quite read it, so he said, "You look surprised."

Jason nodded, a frown creasing his forehead. "Yeah, I never got the impression Wayne cared two hoots about his stepdad. I'm not sure why he'd cared who killed him, expect outta some crazy voyeuristic curiosity."

"The reason he's interested," Joe said, "is because the police consider Wayne their prime suspect. They're not really looking at other people. Wayne tells me he didn't commit the murder and wants me to find out who did."

Jason took a sip of his beer and said, "You believe him, that he didn't kill Dan?"

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't." That might not be entirely true, Joe thought ruefully. "Wayne and I knew each other in the army. We were in the same MP Company."

Jason was nodding. "That sounds like what I'd expect. Wayne was gung-ho military back when I knew him. He was just a kid then, nine or ten, I think? Probably my fault he got interested in to the military. I told him I was going in the army soon as I graduated high school. Guess that made him want to do the same."

"It might have," Joe said. "What else is there to do in this town other than work on the docks?"

A grin hitched the corners of Jason's mouth. "Not a whole lot. Kyle Nicholson probably employs half the town. He owns a bunch of warehouses and controls pretty much everything that comes in and out of Healy."

"How long have you worked for him?" Joe asked, making his voice casual. He lifted his glass of water and sipped.

Jason thought it over. "Ten years?" He looked at his wife for confirmation.

She dropped the chopped vegetables into a pot and said, "Yeah, right about ten years. You got the job on the docks a few months before we got married and we've been married ten years." She gave her husband a charming smile.

Joe leaned forward and flipped open his notepad. He tapped a page with his pen and looked at Jason. "I'm curious, did you interact with Dan Sagget? He worked at the docks, too."

"Nah." Jason shook his head. "He worked at one warehouse and I worked at another. I mean, yeah, I may have crossed paths with him once in a while, but we never spoke to one another or anything like that. Last I heard, he was still a stockman, still stacking the shipments when they came in. Stockman's an entry level position."

Joe wrote something in his notepad and then looked up at Jason. "Just curious, did you start as a stockman?"

"Yeah, pretty sure everybody does. After you've been there a while, and get the hang of things, you move on to other jobs; truck drivers, forklift operators, foremen, overseers, office jobs."

"But Dan remained a stockman, the lowest job on the totem pole, as far as you knew."

"Yeah, far as I knew. I think, but I wouldn't swear to it, that Dan was a stockman back when I was in high school. I know for sure he was working for Kyle Nicholson back then. He mentioned it to me one time when I," Jason cast a quick glance over his shoulder at his wife, "when I dropped by his house to see .. to see his daughter. Uh, step-daughter."

"Connie," Alison said, a grin playing upon her lips. "You told me about her. From what I hear, she still lives in town."

"She does," Joe said. "I interviewed her before I came here. Can't say life has been good to her."

"Life, like anything else, requires effort," Alison said with an air of staidness. "If you don't try to improve yourself, or your circumstances, you can't expect things to improve, can you?"

"True." Joe thought Alison had stated that rather well. He turned back to Jason. "I hear Dan Sagget wasn't the easiest guy to get along with. Connie said he frequently had arguments with people at work, that he'd come home complaining about one person or another. She couldn't remember any names though. What do you know about Dan and how well he got along with people at work?"

Jason took a hit of his beer and leaned back in his chair. "Can't say I know anything about that. Like I said, I never actually worked _with_ Dan. Him not getting along with people doesn't surprise me though. He wasn't the friendliest guy around."

Joe watched Jason's face change, become more somber.

"If you want my opinion," Jason said, "I think he had a temper. A bad one."

"Several people have told me something similar today," Joe said. "Two people said Dan was hard on Wayne. What they described to me sounded like it could've been child abuse."

Jason stared at Joe. Joe thought Jason was trying to make up his mind.

Finally, Jason said, "Yeah, I suspected that, too. I saw bruises on Wayne's face and arms a couple of times. It made me suspicious. I talked to Connie about it, but she shook it off, said her brother was the world's biggest klutz, always falling down or something. I bought the story at first." Jason shrugged. "I didn't know, I was young. But the more I saw Wayne the more I felt something wasn't right. He was too withdrawn for such a young kid. He wouldn't even come near me when I first came around. I kept at it and eventually got him to talk to me. We never talked about Dan or what was happening. Wayne would clam up if I asked him how he got a bruise. Man." A tortured expression fell across Jason's face. "I .. I don't know …"

Joe waited a beat and when Jason didn't say any more, Joe said, "Did you ever suggest to Connie that maybe she should talk to a school counselor about what was happening with her brother?"

A troubled expression darkened Jason's face. "Yeah, I did. She tell you that?"

"She did."

"She didn't do anything about Wayne as far as I know."

Joe shook his head. "No, she didn't."

"Didn't seem to me like she cared." Jason looked defeated. "I .. _I_ talked to the school counselor, told him what I thought might be happening at Connie's house. The counselor seemed a little weirded out about it, about the fact it was _me_ coming in with the story and not Connie. The counselor wasn't much help. Seemed like he didn't want to get involved. He kept questioning me; _why,_ _why_ did I think something was happening? All I had were suspicions and the counselor punched a bunch of holes in my story. Said those bruises could be explained by this or that. Made me start to think I _was_ making mountains out of molehills."

Jason ran a hand through his hair and over his chin. "Damn, I still feel bad about all of that. To this day, I wonder if I should've .. could've done more. Done something differently."

Joe caught a glimpse of Alison. She was standing very still, very quietly. Concern and love shone in her eyes. Joe felt certain she would talk to her husband about all of this tonight, maybe when they were lying in bed. She would hug him and reassure him that he was a good man.

Jason drew in a deep breath and held it a moment before letting it out. Joe could see he had more to say.

"I .. I never told anyone this," Jason began, a haunted sorrow filling his voice, "but .. deep down .. I think whatever happened to Wayne may have broken him. I could see it in his eyes. He didn't want to be afraid anymore. He told me, when he was old enough, he was going to join the army just like me. He said he wanted to learn how to kill people."

Jason shook his head – regret, remorse, guilt – clouded his face and slumped his shoulders. He looked at Joe and said, "I wouldn't be surprised if Wayne killed Dan. Not after what he went through as a kid."

Joe sat there, speechless. The room was silent. No one moved. The atmosphere was changed. Charged and fragile. Stretched so tight it might shatter.

A sudden memory hit Joe like a freight train. They'd called him names, behind his back, in the barracks. _Insane Wayne_ , they'd said and laughed. But it wasn't funny. Not really, because there had been a grain of truth to the name. They'd laughed to chase away their fears. Then someone had whispered, "Just glad he's on our side." And they'd all laughed again. The implication being he might go postal one day. He might do the unspeakable ...

Alison broke the silence. "Do you have any more questions, Mr. Hardy? I'd like to call the kids in to wash up for dinner."

Joe was ripped back to the present and a biting chill washed over him, shuddered down his spine. "Um, no, that's all." He stood and extended a hand to Jason. "Thanks for talking with me. You've been very helpful."

They shook hands and Jason said, "Ya know, I'm probably wrong about Wayne. It was a long time ago when I knew him. I don't know what he's like now. Haven't seen him since he came home from the army."

Backtracking, Joe thought and said, "The important thing is, you shared your honest thoughts and feelings with me and I appreciate that. I'm looking for the truth. It's the only thing that's going to help Wayne. Thank you both for your time." He nodded at Alison. "I'll see myself out."

He closed his notepad and tucked it in his jacket pocket along with his pen. Jason went to the backyard to get the kids.

Joe left by the front door. Closed it and started down the walkway, headed to the street and his truck. He heard the door open behind him. He turned to see Alison running to catch up to him, a Ziploc baggie in her hand. He knew what was in the baggie. Chocolate chip cookies. Two of them.

She held the baggie out to him. "I saw you eyeing them. Figured you were too polite to take one."

He beamed at her in much the same way her son had earlier. _You get me. You understand me_.

He took the bag, a grateful smile spreading across his face. "Thanks. You're very observant. And, if you don't mind me saying, you're a great mom, too."

Alison accepted the compliment with grace. "I try. It's not always easy. You married?"

"Not yet. Wedding's set for December. My fiancée's been dress shopping for a month." He laughed and so did Alison.

"Congratulations," she said then became serious. "I hope you find whoever murdered Dan Sagget. I'll feel safer when this killer's off the streets. I go to bed at night wondering where he is and if he's going to strike again."

Joe knew her secret fear. _Would he target a child next?_

"I'm going to do my best to get him off the streets and behind bars," Joe said. "I promise you that."

"Thank you, Mr. Hardy." Alison gave him one last, sweet, smile then turned and walked back to her house.

Joe watched her go, a loving mother. The kind of mother all little boys wanted. The kind of mother all little boys needed. And deserved.

Some little boys, like himself, got lucky. Others, like Wayne, weren't so lucky. Joe opened the door of his truck, thinking, he hadn't felt an ounce of love, or even kindness, from Dolores Gage. Nope, she was too caught up in herself.

Joe shook his head as he climbed into his truck and started the engine.

* * *

 _A/N: A great big thank you to those who left a review/comments. Always so nice to get those and see what everyone's thinking. I try to reply to your reviews. Please forgive me if I missed you._

To Guest Reviewer: A special thank you for your reviews on this chapter and others. I really appreciate how you point out what you like, such as my characterization and how I show the impact of life circumstances on the characters. :)

To Leyapearl: So glad you're still enjoying this story!

To BMSH: Hmmm, will this killer kill again? We shall see ... Thanks for leaving a review.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Joe pulled into the parking lot of his hotel. It was going on five p.m. and he was hungry. Breakfast had been hours ago and lunch had been skipped in order to do interviews. And yet, there was work to be done. Dinner would have to wait. He lifted his phone and punched in the office number.

Nancy answered after two rings. " _Endeavor Detective Agency_ , how may I help you?"

"It's me, Nan. Guess you didn't see the caller ID."

"Oh! Hi, Joe. Sorry, I wasn't looking at the caller ID. I was finishing a report and getting ready to shutdown my computer for the day. How are things with you? Making any progress on your case?"

"Yeah, I've made some progress. Not sure it's good progress and not sure I like where it's headed."

"Sounds ominous. By the way, I have the contract ready for Mr. Banyan's signature."

"Wayne," Joe corrected. "Sounds weird to hear him called _Mister_ Banyan."

"Sorry, force of habit." Joe felt the smile in Nancy's voice. "Would you like me to fax a copy of the contract to your hotel? I can do that now if you'd like."

"Yeah, that would be great. I just pulled into the hotel parking lot. Haven't even gotten out of the truck."

Nancy chuckled. "Been a long day, I guess. Okay, consider the contract on its way. Should take about five minutes at the most."

"Thanks, Nan. Is my brother around?"

"No, he's out finishing up a case and then he's picking up dinner for us _and_ Vanessa. She's coming over at six-thirty."

The mention of Vanessa stirred Joe's heart and he felt an overwhelming desire to hold her. To kiss her and run his hands through her honey-blonde hair. If she were with him tonight, he'd never let her go. He'd press her to him and hold her tight .. all night long. And kiss her. And tell her how much he loved her.

"Joe? You there?"

"Um, yeah. Sorry, kinda spaced out there for a minute."

"No problem. The contract is on its way to the hotel."

"Great. Thanks. Hey, tell Vanessa I miss her and I'll call later tonight. Probably around eight."

"I'll let her know. She'll be happy to hear that. She misses you something crazy." The warmth in Nancy's voice traveled through the phone and straight to Joe's heart.

"She does? She tell you that?"

Nancy laughed softly. "She didn't have to. I can see it in her eyes. I can tell you miss her just as much."

"Well, she is the best thing that's ever happened to me."

"I hope you tell her that," Nancy said quietly.

"I-I'm pretty sure I have. But I'll tell her again."

"You do that." Nancy paused a beat and then said, "Okay, the contract is there and it's officially quitting time here. If you don't need anything else I'm going to freshen up before Frank and Vanessa arrive."

"I'm good. Thanks again, Nancy. You're very efficient. Our office wouldn't run half as smoothly without you."

"Oh, you and Frank do your fair share. I like to think the three of us make a good team and work well together."

"Yeah, we do. Tell my brother I might need his help on this case."

"That will definitely make his night. He's been dying to hear that."

Joe chuckled to himself. "I bet he has. Tell him I'll call him later, after I talk to Vanessa."

"Will do. Take care, Joe. And by the way, I miss you, too."

Joe couldn't deny that was nice to hear. He ended the call and got out of his truck. He was happy Nancy and Frank were getting married the same day as him and Vanessa. Nancy was a good match for his brother. She was quiet and intelligent – like his brother – and the two of them could analyze the heck out of a case or suspect.

Nancy had been a detective for the Chicago Police Department before partnering with Joe and Frank. She was a formidable detective in her own right and, in the short time the three detectives had worked together, she had proven her mettle, both with a gun and in physical altercations.

She was currently working with Vanessa, teaching her some martial arts moves and how to shoot a handgun. Joe had casually mentioned the idea one day and both women had jumped at it. Joe figured it couldn't hurt for Vanessa to have some rudimental training. You never knew what life might throw at you, especially when dating a detective. Best to be prepared for anything, and he did mean anything.

He entered the hotel, greeted the nice, older woman behind the counter, and soon had Wayne's contract in hand. Now, all he had to do was get Wayne's signature. No problem, he planned to meet with Wayne tonight and discuss the case. He'd also like a few answers to some nagging questions. Such as, why didn't Wayne mention Bulka at dinner? Why did he come back to Healy? Had to be other places he could've gone. And the big question, why had he wanted to kill his stepfather? Joe was pretty sure he knew the answer to that one, but it would be nice to hear it from Wayne's own mouth.

Joe headed to his room with Wayne's contract and the bag of cookies in one hand and his keycard in the other. The cookies were calling his name. Loudly.

"I have to call Wayne first," he told them as he slid the keycard in the door. "Then I'll take care of you." He smiled. They smelled heavenly.

He laid the contract and cookies on the bed and called Wayne.

Wayne answered after one ring, "What's up?"

"I've been busy today," Joe said. "Got lots I'd like to discuss with you, maybe over dinner?"

There was a slight hesitation before Wayne said, "Sure. Um, tonight's pizza night. I pick up my order at five-thirty and bring it home. You interested in pizza? We can eat at my house."

"Am I interested in pizza? You even have to ask?"

"Okay, stupid question. I usually get two pizzas. One with pepperoni and extra cheese and one with everything, no anchovies."

"Sounds fantastic. I'm starving."

"Okay, I eat at six. My house is on .."

"I know where you live. I'll be there by six. I'll pick up some Cokes on my way. You like Coke, right?"

"Yeah. You know where I live?"

"You're my client. It's my business to know where you live. See you shortly." Joe hung up before Wayne could ask any questions.

# # # #

Wayne stared at his phone. Joe knew where he lived? It shouldn't surprise him. Joe _was_ a trained policeman. A _decorated,_ _military_ policeman. He and Joe had hunted insurgents in a filthy country halfway around the world. They'd managed to find quite a few. It had taken balls of steel to creep up to thatched houses and bang on doors, rifles in their hands, ready to fire. Wayne had trusted Joe with his life then and never regretted it. Not once. In the heat of battle, when he was hunkered down behind an Armored Personnel Carrier, questioning why he'd joined the army, he and Joe had been there for each other. Joe was the real deal. The only person in their platoon who'd shown Wayne any sort of friendship. Made him feel part of the team.

Wayne sat at his dining room table. Bulka came over and laid her head on his thigh. Absently, he stroked her fur. He and Bulka were in tune with each other. Able to read the other's mood and emotions.

"We're going to have company for dinner," he told the dog. "Sergeant Hardy's coming over." He looked down at Bulka and she looked up at him. "Remember Sergeant Hardy?"

No indication she knew what he was saying. That was okay. Wayne was sure she'd recognize Joe when he got there. The three of them had done a ton of patrols together. No way would she forget Joe, the fun loving soldier who'd played endless games of fetch with her.

Wayne ruffled Bulka's fur. "Joe's going to be real surprised to see you. Not sure how he'll feel about .. about me not telling him .."

The pressure gripped him. Squeezed him like a vise grip. It started in his chest and spread out .. growing in intensity … He fought for air. Strained to breathe.

Tension and stress. Both triggers. Bulka whined and put a paw on his thigh. Her brow knit together in a way that said she was worried for her owner.

Count to ten, the doctor had said. Count to ten!

Wayne started counting. _One, two, three …_ Pictured a sunny day on a beach. Palm trees swaying in the breeze. _Four, five, six …_ Bulka barking at the waves. Having fun chasing crabs. _Seven, eight, nine …_

Gradually, his heart-rate slowed and he took a deep, satisfying breath. "I'm okay, girl. I'm okay."

He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes. Wiped his glasses on his shirt hem and pushed to his feet. He was shaking. The clock on the wall told him it was time to get the pizzas. _Yeah, do that. Good change of scenery_. He dug a dog biscuit out of a box on the counter and gave it to Bulka, his hand trembling.

His breathe still came in gasps. "There. Good. Girl. I'll .. I'll be back soon."

# # # #

Joe knocked on Wayne's door at six o'clock on the dot. A plastic bag dangled from his left hand.

Wayne opened the door and said, "Hey."

Joe held up the plastic bag. "Got a six-pack of Coke."

Wayne could see there was something else in the bag, but didn't ask about it. "Great. Come in. Dining room's straight ahead and to the right."

Joe entered and scanned the room. They were in the living room. It was small, neat, and orderly. Not much stuff. Wayne lived frugally. An old sofa, big TV, and an end table with a lamp.

A few steps brought the men to the dining room-slash-kitchen. Another neat, clean, organized room. The dining room table was the old metal Formica kind with two chairs. Plates were laid out on the table. Napkins and two steaming pizza boxes sat on the kitchen counter. Joe set his plastic bag on the counter next to the pizza boxes. He looked out the window over the kitchen sink. It was a casual gesture. Joe was looking for Bulka. He didn't see her.

Wayne was behind him. Joe could feel the tension radiating off the man. Joe turned to him and said, "Nice place. How long you lived here?"

The question seem to catch Wayne off guard, like he was expecting a completely different question, something harder to answer. Wayne adjusted his glasses and said, "Oh, um, two years, there about."

"It's better than where I live." Joe was making light conversation. "I have a small bedroom on the main floor of our office. There's a full apartment upstairs over the office. My brother, Frank, lives up there. I share the kitchen space with him and the living room. In a few months, after he's married, the place'll be mine. He and his girlfriend plan on moving out. They've been apartment hunting for the past month."

Wayne nodded showing that he'd heard what Joe said, but gave no reply. Joe wasn't surprised or offended by the lack of a response. He knew Wayne wasn't interested in other people or their lives.

"I have something to tell you," Wayne said.

Joe's brows lifted in interest.

"I have a dog. You okay with a dog?" Wayne said it fast, all in one breath.

Joe grinned a little. "I know about the dog. I was here last night."

"What? Why?" The words came out slow and cautious.

"Wanted to see for myself how easy it was to throw a pair of bloody gloves over your fence. Found out, throwing them over would be easy. What puzzles me, is why Bulka didn't find them before the police did." Joe leaned his hips against the counter and stared hard at his old army partner. "Care to explain that? Explain to me why Bulka didn't alert to a pair of bloody gloves."

Wayne ran a hand over his chin and swallowed hard. "Wow. Didn't expect that. You coming by, checking the place out. Well, um, Bulka didn't alert because she wasn't in the yard that night. She was sick. Nearly died the day before."

Joe saw the aguish on Wayne's face. The absolute gut punch of emotion. The look a soldier had when he saw a fallen comrade. Joe lowered his head and gave Wayne a few seconds to get his emotions under control.

After a second or two, Joe lifted his head, saw Wayne's lingering pain and felt it. "Damn," Joe said, his tone heartfelt and sympathetic. "What happened?"

Wayne glanced at the clock on the stove. "Hey, can I let her in. She's used to being in at this time."

Joe smiled broadly. "Hell yeah, get her in here. I want to see her again and give her a hug."

Wayne didn't appear completely pleased with that last comment. Joe figured Wayne was a little bit jealous and a whole lot protective of the dog. Just the way it should be.

"I'm not going to steal your girl from you," Joe joked. "Just wanna give her a hug and a treat. I got her a chew bone." He jabbed his thumb in the direction of the plastic bag.

"She'll love that," Wayne said, nodding. He went to the back door and opened it.

Bulka was standing there, waiting to come in. She leaped inside and froze when she realized someone else was in the room. Her hackles came up and she bared her teeth. A low, menacing growl rumbled up from her chest.

Joe dropped to a knee and spoke softly, calmly, "Hey, it's me, girl. It's Joe."

He saw the indecision in the dog's eyes. She checked with her master, looking for guidance.

"It's okay," Wayne said. "You remember Joe." With a wave of his hand, the hackles came down and the growl morphed into an excited bark.

Joe approached on bended knee, a hand outstretched. "Can I pet ya, girl?"

The reunion was as happy and as joyous as their previous one. Joe got a face full of licks and an ear full of happy barks. All the while, he got in as many pets and rubs as he could.

Finally, the dog calmed down and Joe gave her the treat he'd brought. Bulka was ecstatic. Her tail wagged so hard, Joe wondered if it hurt. She hefted the big chew bone in her mouth, retreated to a corner, laid down, and began gnawing.

The men dished themselves slices of pizza and grabbed cans of Coke. They sat at the chipped Formica table and inhaled their first slice of pizza. Neither spoke until the second slices were half eaten.

Joe washed his pizza down with a gulp of Coke and said, "So, tell me about Bulka being sick. You said she nearly died."

Wayne swallowed a piece of pizza and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Yeah, best I can figure, she was poisoned the day before the gloves were discovered in my yard."

"Poisoned? You sure?" Joe's jaw tightened.

"I came home that morning and found her lying in the yard, foaming at the mouth. Twitching like she was having a seizure. I-I was terrified. All I could think was, I'd bought her all the way from Afghanistan and ... and I didn't want her dying here. Not like that. I scooped her up, got her in here, laid her on the floor and called the vet's emergency number. Told them it looked like she'd been poisoned. She was seizing. They said to bring her in stat.

"It was four-thirty in the morning and I raced to the clinic. Ran every red light between here and there getting her there. I didn't care. The police could give me a ticket. I knew I had to get her there. Her life depended on it. I had no idea how long she'd lain in the backyard drooling and seizing. I-I was afraid she was going to die before I got her to the clinic. Damn, I've never been so afraid."

He paused and took a breath. Gathered the strength to continue.

"They were ready when I pulled up at the vet's. Two medics were outside with a gurney. They climbed in the back of my truck without even asking and got her. One of them started an IV and they wheeled her into the clinic. I-I stumbled in behind them, praying. Praying I'd got her there in time."

Joe sat very still and listened. He could feel Wayne's aguish and pain. It was like a bleeding wound, still fresh.

"I sat in the clinic and waited. Spent the whole morning sitting there. It was about two hours before a doctor came out and told me she was going to be okay." Wayne took off his glasses and ran a hand over his moist eyes.

"Damn," Joe hissed. "I can't imagine how hard that was for you. Man, I'm sorry. Really sorry. Did the doctor say what happened to her? Was it poison?"

"Yep." Wayne nodded miserably. "They ran all kinds of blood work and found traces of a poison, an over-the-counter insecticide they think. Doctor said he pumped her stomach and found some raw meat. He figured that's how the poison was introduced."

"Bastard." Joe snarled. "Whoever did this needs to pay."

Wayne nodded. "My thoughts exactly. I believe, whoever killed Dan Sagget, poisoned  
Bulka first."

The angles of Joe's face hardened. "Because they wanted to plant the gloves in your backyard, but they didn't want the dog discovering them and you disposing of them. The killer had it all planned out, how they were going to set you up for the murder."

Wayne took another slice of pizza from a box and laid it on his plate. "That's how I see it. I just don't know who – other than me – wanted Dan dead."

Joe snagged another slice of pizza and said, "I talked to your mom and sister today. They indicated to me that Dan didn't get along well with his co-workers. According to your sister, Dan was frequently angry with someone at work. I'm wondering if there might've been a longstanding grudge between Dan and someone and that someone finally decided to take their revenge."

Wayne shrugged. "With Dan, it's hard to say. My mom and sister would know more about his work life than I would. Back then, I was young and didn't pay attention to that stuff. I was .. Well, it was a long time ago."

You were beaten, Joe thought. You had other things on your mind. But we'll discuss that later.

Joe took a bite of pizza and chewed. He looked over at the corner. Bulka was still going to town on the bone. Joe smiled then shifted his focus back to Wayne.

"How'd you wind up with Bulka? I didn't think she was that close to being retired."

Wayne sipped some of his Coke and placed the can carefully on the table. Joe got the impression this was going to be a tough story to tell.

"Yeah, she was given a medical discharge." Wayne looked at Joe, but his gaze went off to some middle distance. "We got hit hard after you left. A pair of insurgents crashed through the gate and started shooting. One of them had an effing RPG (rocket propelled grenade). It was a … it was bad. Real bad. Elmendorf got it in the head. Never had a chance."

"Yeah, I heard about Elms," Joe's voice was thick with emotion. Every soldier hated hearing about the death of a fellow soldier. Joe wished he'd been there, been part of the fight. Would his presence have made a difference? Probably not, but the universal feeling was, he'd let his buddies down by not being there.

Joe's time in the Army was coming to an end. His discharge was a month away when the Army transferred him back to the States so he could out-process. Leaving Afghanistan had been a blessing and a curse. Joe remembered being happy to put the war behind him, but he hated – absolutely hated – leaving his buddies behind. They were a team, a fighting, kick-ass team.

Wayne was still talking, "We laid down suppressing fire. Everybody was hammering at those guys. M16s and M4s on full auto. Finally, Landers showed up with a LAW (light anti-tank weapon) and took out the guy with the RPG. That put an end to the fight and we all cheered."

"Damn, sounds bad." Joe's throat was tight, his heart thumping like he'd been there.

"Yeah, and then we noticed Bulka. She was with Elmendorf, guarding him. She'd been shot herself, but wouldn't let anybody near her or Elms. He's on the ground bleeding, not moving, and she's going crazy, growling at everyone. I think she kinda lost it."

"Damn. How'd you finally get to her?"

"Doc Bates came out and tried to talk her down. When that didn't work someone said we might have to shoot her. Doc said before we did that we should try coaxing her with a familiar item. I said I'd get her blanket, the one you and me bought for her, the one she always slept on. I got that, brought it back, and showed it to her. Doc and I talked to her, real calm and gentle. Finally she limped over and laid on the blanket. Everyone was happy and saying, 'Good, girl. Good, girl.' She was hurt bad, we could see that. She didn't fight when Doc gave her a sedative."

"She was shot?" Joe wore a pained expression.

"Upper right chest." He touched his chest to indicate the approximate spot. "Her bulletproof vest saved her life. The bullet missed her lung, thank God, but she'd lost a lot of blood."

"Looks like she healed up fine."

"Yeah, Doc fixed her up. Physically, she was good as new." Wayne paused a beat and swallowed past the lump forming in his throat. "Mentally, she wasn't so good. She'd growled and flinch at just about everyone who went to see her. Sometimes, she'd cower and whine. It was hard to see her like that. A lot of the guys stopped visiting her. Not me. I kept going. I'd bring her stuff – her favorite ball, those dog biscuits she liked; you know, stuff like that – and eventually, she warmed up to me again. Best day of my life was when she let me pet her."

"That's good man, real good." Joe was beginning to understand just how important Bulka was to Wayne, to this broken man.

"Doc Bates told me her war was over. She'd seen one too many dead soldiers. He said he'd wait until her wounds healed and see how she reacted, but he didn't hold out much hope. None of us did. We could see the fear in her eyes. She was a different dog."

"She's not like that now," Joe said. "She was real friendly to me once she knew who I was."

"I've spent the last two years working with her. The vet here's been a big help. He's done a lot of research on PTSD in dogs. We've been doing behavior modification with her and its working. She's come a long way."

"That's good. Bulka deserves the best. She's earned it."

Bulka, tired of her bone, left it in the corner and walked over to investigate the men's dinner. She lifted her nose and sniffed the edge of the table. Joe reached out and scratched behind her ear.

"I went to Doc," Wayne said. "Told him I was getting out in four months. Asked, what were the chances I could adopt Bulka? Doc was happy to hear that. Said it would be the best solution for her. He didn't think she'd transition well to civilian life if she wasn't with someone she knew and trusted. Doc started the paperwork and some of the guys got jealous. I heard the talk. Why was I so special? Why'd I get to have Bulka?"

Wayne's eyes sought Joe's. "I know what people called me behind my back. _Insane Wayne_." He saw Joe's stunned expression. "Yeah, I knew all of that. I know they said other things, too. I never heard you say anything bad about anyone and I admired that. I admired you."

Joe was humbled. No, he'd never said a derogatory word about any member of their team. He didn't believe in disparaging another soldier. They were a team and every member was valuable in one way or another. It was the leader's job to discover each soldier's strength and use it to the team's advantage.

"That's nice to hear," Joe said. "I admired you, too. You're probably the best soldier I served with. I tell people that. You were top-notch. I think you could've gone far in the army. Why'd you get out? Why'd you come back here, to Healy?"

Wayne took a bite of his pizza and considered his answer. Joe ate, too, waiting for Wayne's response.

At last, Wayne finished his pizza and wiped his hands and mouth with his napkin. "Why'd I get out? I'd had enough. Bulka'd had enough. I didn't want to lose her. When Doc said he would do the paperwork so I could adopt her, I never looked back. I looked forward, forward to getting her. Doc said she needed a quiet, stable home. She wouldn't adjust well to a lot of moving around." Wayne nodded at the dog sitting next to the table, waiting patiently for a scrap of pizza. "She became my life. Everything I did was for her. I came here partly because it was my Home of Record and partly because it's the only place I knew." He gave a helpless shrug. "My Uncle Mike helped me get this place. His wife's a realtor. She got me a good deal and she had the place ready for me and Bulka when we arrived. I can't thank her enough for that."

"That was nice of your Aunt. You see her and your Uncle often?"

"Nah, I'm not close with any of my family. I was grateful my Aunt and Uncle did that much for me. I think they did it because my Aunt made some money outta the deal. She got a percentage on the sale of the house. Something like that."

"Your Uncle, he's .."

"My mom's brother. Didn't see him much growing up. Just at Christmases. My mom and her brother weren't tight. None of my family is. I live my life and they live theirs."

In this family, that was probably for the best, Joe thought.

* * *

 _A/N: Thanks to those nice people who left reviews on the previous chapter. I always enjoy reading your thoughts and opinions. Hopefully, this chapter answered some of your questions. The next chapter will answer more questions._

 _To Guest Reviewer: Well, thought-out review and you pretty much hit on everything I was trying to convey in that chapter. Some people rise above their circumstances and, sadly, some people do not. Speaking as a mom, we never tire of hearing our children said they love us and appreciate us. :)_


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Wayne had talked more tonight than he had in his entire life. He'd told Joe everything. All his deep, dark secrets. Well, most of them. The important ones at least.

Joe had known about the beatings. That had shamed Wayne. When Joe mentioned the abuse, Wayne had gone scarlet and a fire had exploded in his chest. The emotion had grabbed him by the throat and threatened to suffocate him. He'd felt the tension and stress rising .. building …

Somehow, force of will perhaps, he'd tamped it down. Locked the emotion deep inside. Now, he tidied his kitchen. Made sure the sugar and coffee containers were lined up precisely and neatly against the backsplash. Fifteen more minutes and he had to leave for his nightly job.

He took off his glasses and laid them on the counter. At the sink, he wet a washcloth and washed his face. Washed away the tears, the hate, the fear, and the shame.

He was the victim, yet _he_ felt ashamed. It didn't make sense.

Why couldn't he get over that? _The shame_.

He wrung out the washcloth and laid it over the faucet. Bulka came up and pressed her head against his leg. He got down on one knee and hugged her. She laid her head on his shoulder and they stayed like that. Man and dog in an embrace. It was a nightly ritual. She knew he was leaving soon and this was their way of saying good-bye.

Wayne wondered, for the thousandth time, what he'd do without Bulka.

He drew back and looked at her. "You're my world, girl. You know that, don't you?"

She licked his face and whined, sad he was leaving. He hugged her again and thought of how much she'd changed his life. Once upon a time, he'd run to a tree in the woods behind his house. His time of shame and hate, he called it. All he'd had back then was a tree. The tallest tree in the woods. He'd loved that tree as deeply as if it was a person. It had represented strength and security. Something he had desperately needed at that time and something he had desperately wanted for the future.

Now, Bulka was part of his life. She was a living being and gave him _unconditional_ love. He gave her the same. It was wonderful to have someone to come home to. Someone that relied on him. Someone he would protect with his life.

He patted her head and rose. He hated to leave her, but he had to work.

"Almost time for me to go, girl," his voice was heavy, downcast.

He went to the garage, Bulka at his heels. Her bed, food dish, and water dish were set up. There was a door in the garage that led to the backyard. It had a doggie door at the bottom and on nice nights, like tonight, Wayne left Bulka in the garage. She had access to the backyard to do her business, run around, or play with her yard toys. He knew her nightly routine. The first portion of the night was spent in the yard nosing around, hunting mice and other small animals. How many times had he come home to a dead mouse in the garage and Bulka beaming with pride? _Look what I did while you were gone_.

He always praised her, patted her, and gave her a treat.

Around midnight, Bulka would return to the garage to eat, drink water, and curl up in her bed. Wayne returned home between twelve-thirty and one o'clock for his dinner break and to check on her. Depending on Bulka's mood and the weather, he either left Bulka in the garage or let her into the house.

Wayne fluffed her bed and spread her favorite blanket over it. It was late September and the nights were starting to get cold. He couldn't bear the thought of her shivering and being uncomfortable. There was even a heater for the really cold nights.

"Okay," he said, turning to Bulka and petting her head, "I have to go."

Thirty minutes later, Wayne was driving his nightly route, checking for vandals, rowdy teens, or vagrants camped in places they weren't supposed to camp in. But his mind wasn't entirely on his job. His mind was in the past, reliving his childhood.

The beatings had changed him. That's how abuse worked, it changed the victim. They became someone they might never have been. He had grown up and, without wanting to, had become a monster. He'd always harbored a secret dread that he would become a monster. You lived with monsters, you ate with monsters, and eventually you became a monster. Whether you wanted to or not. Life didn't grant you any other choice.

Wayne hated his stepfather and his mother, and to a lesser extent, his sister. One was dead and one deserved to die. His mother. No question about that. Wayne kind of hated that he felt this way. That he wanted his mother dead. These very feelings made him a monster, no better than Dan Sagget.

And Wayne hated being a monster. The very thought pained him. It was a knife to his heart. But then, his dreams had died young, when he was a kid. All his hopes for love and happiness had been burned in the flames of indifference, neglect, and abuse.

Yes, he had Bulka and she loved him. He loved her and she had changed him. Maybe he wasn't a monster.

 _Maybe_ , he thought. _Maybe_.

Wayne had joined the army and tried to live his life a certain way. An honorable way, just like they'd taught him in the military. A man lived and died on his honor. Wayne planned to do the same.

# # # #

Joe sat in his hotel room at the small table in the corner. His notepad was laid out in front of him. A notebook and pen lay beside it, waiting for Joe's thoughts. He picked up a steaming cup of coffee and sipped. Not bad for hotel coffee. It went well with the cookies. He'd saved them for his return to the hotel. Something to look forward to at the end of a long, stressful day.

Joe set down his coffee, picked up the pen, and scratched out a timeline in the large notebook. Dan Sagget had been murdered on a Wednesday three weeks ago. Bulka had been poisoned on Tuesday, the night before the murder. She'd spent two nights at the vet clinic and, therefore, had not been in the yard when the gloves were thrown over the fence. Wayne told Joe it took Bulka two weeks to fully recover from her ordeal.

She's only just now recovered, Joe thought. He dropped the pen on the table and leaned back in his chair. He'd had a good discussion with Wayne tonight. In Joe's opinion, Wayne had been honest and forthright. Wayne certainly hadn't held back any punches when it came to how he felt about his stepfather and mother.

Wayne's words drifted back to Joe.

"I wanted Dan dead. I won't deny that. I wanted my mother dead, too. Dan beat me and that was reason enough to kill him. Killing would be my revenge. As for my mother, she sat by and let the abuse happen. She never said a word or lifted one finger to stop Dan. Yeah, I hate her for that. I don't even consider her a mother. Mothers are supposed to protect their children, aren't they?"

Wayne's words still haunted Joe, still left him a bit uneasy and unsure.

"What about your sister," Joe had asked.

Wayne had shrugged and shook his head. "She was a kid, a teenager. I don't know. I guess she didn't care about me. She lived her life and ignored mine. I might've done the same if I'd been in her shoes. Guess I'll never know. Can't go back in time and change things, can we?"

Nope, can't time travel and can't change the past. Joe's mood was decidedly down and dispirited.

He sipped more coffee and finished the cookies. They were good, their sweetness the perfect mood booster. He pushed the notebook away and pulled out his phone. He knew an even better mood booster. Vanessa. It was eight o'clock. Time to give her a call.

"Hey, babe, I've been waiting for your call." The love and affection in Vanessa's voice warmed Joe's heart and soothed his troubled spirit.

"Sorry if I kept you waiting," he said. "It's been a busy day here. Lots of interviews. Lots for me to think about."

"Sounds like this case is giving you a run for your money," Vanessa cooed.

"Yeah, it is," Joe admitted. "But I didn't call you to talk about the case. I want to hear about your day."

Vanessa sighed contentedly and Joe imagined her stretched out on her bed with only the bedside lamp on, the soft glow turning her skin a golden tan.

"You in bed?" he asked, strictly curious.

"Yes, and in my pajamas. The pink flannel ones with the little bunnies. It's cold here tonight."

"Cold here, too." His mind wasn't on the weather. It was on Vanessa and how she looked in those flannel pajamas. Pretty damn cute if you asked him.

"Are you in your pajamas?" Vanessa asked in a teasing tone.

Joe laughed out loud. "Am I sitting here in my underwear? Nope. Sorry to disappoint, I'm still dressed. Still working on the case. Putting my thoughts down on paper."

He heard her shift on the bed. Thought maybe she'd sat up, pulled her knees up and hugged them. "Wow, you really are working hard on this case. Are you .. are you going to be able to come home this weekend?"

"Kind of have to. I need more clothes if nothing else."

Vanessa giggled. "I hadn't thought of that."

"Me needing clothes? Yeah, you wouldn't want me running around half-naked, would you?"

"Only if you were with me and we were some place private."

He felt the smile and sassiness in her voice. A good deal of sultriness was in there, too. Their conversation continued along more intimate lines for the next several minutes, each detailing how much they missed the other. Finally, they declared their heartfelt love and longing for one another and ended the call.

Joe laid his phone on the table and blew out a breath. Yep, he was definitely going home this weekend, at least for one day. Actually, who cared about the day? It was the night he was looking forward to.

He ditched the last of his coffee, used the bathroom, washed his hands, and called Frank. As expected, Frank wanted to hear all about the case. That was good because Joe wanted to tell him all about it. He needed someone to bounce ideas off of.

Frank had lots of questions and Joe answered the ones he could. There were still a lot of unknowns. It was still early days in the investigation, Joe reminded his brother.

Frank laughed and said, "Yeah, I know. Hey, I'm wrapping up this insurance fraud case I've been working. I should be available to help you with your case by this weekend. Monday at the latest."

"Good to hear and the timing works perfectly. I'm planning on coming home for at least one day this weekend. I need more clothes and some other things. We can talk more then."

"Sounds good," Frank said and the brothers ended the call.

Joe was left all alone in his hotel room. Of course, he'd been alone this whole time. However, it hadn't felt lonely - really lonely - until now. Now, a heavy silence filled the space. Already, Joe missed the sound of Vanessa's voice. And her laughter.

The conversations with Vanessa, Frank, and Nancy earlier, made him realize how much he missed his family and friends. He'd see them soon, he reminded himself and, besides, he had plenty to occupy his time. A murder investigation.

He pulled the small notepad closer, opened it, and scanned through the notes he'd made that day. Two names stood out. Randy Gage and Kyle Nicholson. Nicholson was at the top of the list. He was the guy Joe needed to talk to first thing tomorrow morning.

Joe picked up the pen and wrote questions on a new page in the larger notebook. He liked to have his thoughts organized and his questions prepared before he interviewed someone. Especially, someone as important as Kyle Nicholson.

Joe could, and would, research some of the questions he had about Nicholson and possibly find answers online. Those would be mainly background questions, such as, what was Nicholson's net worth? How many docks and warehouses did he own and operate? How many employees did he have?

The questions went on for a while, Joe scribbling them in the notebook as fast as he thought of them.

After a few minutes, Joe sat back and read over what he'd written. All good questions. New questions came to mind and he started writing again. What was Nicholson's opinion of Dan Sagget as an employee? How did Dan get along with his fellow workers and vise versa? How long had Dan worked for Nicholson?

Joe reread what he'd written and yawned. It was getting late, going on ten. He was tired and, despite the coffee, his brain was shutting down. He pushed out of the chair and stretched. Time for a shower and bed. Start fresh in the morning. You never knew what a new day would throw at you. Best to be well rested and mentally sharp.

* * *

 _A/N: Thank you immensely everyone who's left a review on this story. Those always warm my heart. The action picks up after this chapter._


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Thursday morning, nine a.m. Joe had been trying to get an interview with Kyle Nicholson. So far, he'd been getting the runaround from Nicholson's secretary. Only one thing to do, take matters into his own hands. Joe decided he would drive to the docks and find Kyle Nicholson. If nothing else, Joe could get a good look at the docks and what went on down there. Jason Becker had said that Nicholson controlled everything that came into and went out of Healy. Sounded like a major operation. Maybe something illegal went on down there, too. Dan Sagget might have stumbled upon those illegal happenings or he could have been a part of the illegal happenings and got too full of himself. Demanded more money, perhaps, and his murder was a way to silence him.

Hmmm, lots of questions and no answers. Yet, Joe thought.

The morning was clear and bright. Temperatures were predicted to be in the high sixties to low seventies. In other words, pleasant and warm. Joe dressed appropriately in jeans, tennis shoes, and a t-shirt. He had his jacket in case it got cold. He stood in the hotel parking lot and peered at the cloudless sky. Didn't seem likely it would turn cold.

Joe tossed two bottles of water in his truck and climbed into the driver's seat. He programmed the GPS and headed for the docks. Ten minutes later he found them. Or at least, the beginnings of them. He drove slowly along a ten-foot tall chain-link fence and eyed the buildings beyond stretching over approximately twenty acres. The morning light picked out every blemish and defect in those buildings. They were old, but built to last, to stand the test of time and anything Mother Nature threw at them. Most of the buildings were two story and set back from the river. Their large open bays reminded Joe of baby birds, mouths open, awaiting food. Here, the warehouses awaited incoming goods. Of course, an equal number of goods flooded out of those buildings, headed for other cities and towns in Illinois.

The docks were a large, busy, messy affair. Boats and small ships were lined up at the piers. Trucks, forklifts, and people hustled to and fro amid the buildings and piers. Everyone and everything was in motion. Dust swirled in the air. Men shouted orders. A whistle blew, but as far as Joe could tell, no one paid it any mind.

Signs were posted along the fence at regular intervals and warned, "PRIVATE PROPERTY. NO TRESPASSING!"

Heck of a lot of security, Joe thought as he pulled up to a gate and greeted the guard.

The guard wore a sidearm strapped to his waist and a forest green outfit that resembled a military uniform. On the right side of the shirt, above the pocket, was embroidered, _Nicholson Dockworks Security_. The guard looked to be the same age as Joe – thirty – and from what Joe could see, he took his job seriously. Very seriously.

Joe buzzed down his window and the guard stepped closer. "Your pass, sir."

"Uh, don't have a pass," Joe said. "I'm here to see Mr. Nicholson."

The guard gave Joe a look. _What do you mean you don't have a pass?_ "Sir, you need a pass to enter. Mr. Nicholson's secretary should've given you a pass. Or a confirmation number. Or something."

Joe could see where this was going. Nowhere good for him. "I called her, but she didn't give me anything. Guess we got our signals crossed."

The guard frowned, his expression indicated, Joe's version of events didn't quite add up. "Okay, sir, you'll have to call her and get her to fax you a pass, or have her send a confirmation number to your phone or email address. No one is allowed in without a pass or proper confirmation and ID."

Joe glanced around, noticed the razor wire along the top of the fence and the cameras mounted outside of the guard shack. He was being recorded. "Okay, got it," Joe said. "Guess I'll have to call her again. Can I back up and do a U-turn?"

"Sure. Back up right over there. You should have enough room to turn around."

Joe did as instructed and was soon headed down the road, paralleling the docks and the warehouses. The sprawling enterprise slid by outside his passenger side window. Joe wanted to be in there, among those buildings, checking things out, and finding Nicholson.

Joe had to wonder, why, exactly, did Nicholson need this much security? Seemed excessive for a small town.

Joe drove two and a half miles down the road before he spotted what he was looking for – a roadside pullout. He overshot it and had to do a U-turn to get back to it. The place was perched above the river and under some thick trunked trees with huge, overhanging branches. Place was probably a wayside rest-stop at one time. Joe got out of his truck and surveyed the place. No one had been here in a while. The pavement was cracked and weeds were slowly creeping in, devouring the place.

Joe heard the Illinois River tumbling by and walked to the little lookout point. The view was spectacular. More people should use this little rest-stop.

Joe figured he could leave his truck here and hike back to the docks. Maybe he could enter the compound on foot near the docks, or maybe he would find an unguarded gate or, even better, an opening in the fence. One could hope.

Joe went to his truck, drank some water, scooped up a baseball cap, and shoved it on his head. All ready to go. He locked his truck and headed down to the riverbank. Found a footpath that lead toward the docks and followed it.

The morning sun cast Joe's shadow behind him, long and lean on the sandy ground. Thistle and turf grass grew in clumps beside the river. The flow of the river was a soothing partner. Trees grew on the other side of Joe, the side away from the river. His footsteps scared up small birds who darted like arrows into trees. The trees provided the occasional patch of shade. Joe ambled along, the sun warm on his shoulders and back. By his estimate, he had a two mile walk ahead of him.

Thirty-five minutes later, right on schedule, he approached the outskirts of the docks and stumbled upon a surprise – a shipping container graveyard. Huge metal boxes – twenty feet long by eight feet wide – lay scattered on the ground like blocks that had been dropped by a giant. Weeds and thigh-high grass grew up around them. Some containers lay on their sides as if the giant had kicked them over. Others appeared to have sunk into the ground. Most containers, however, sat upright with their doors hanging open, _if_ a door remained. Most doors were missing. Perhaps, they had been confiscated by the hobos and homeless that sheltered here.

Signs of habitation were visible all over the place. Well-worn footpaths, old camp fires, bottles and food wrappers littered the ground. Plastic shopping bags, hooked on thorny shrubs, rustled in the welcome breeze. Joe put a hand to the brim of his cap, shielded his eyes, and scoured the immediate area. No one in sight at the moment. Of course, they could be hiding among the trees, in the tall grass, or under the moisture starved bushes.

Hobos and the homeless were not Joe's concern on this bright September morning, so he didn't put much effort into looking for them. Instead, he peered into the not so distant, distance and saw the dreaded fence. Big disappointment, but Joe wasn't about to give up. He'd come too far. There still might be an open gate, sans guard, somewhere along that fence. Only one way to find out. Get closer. First though, an open field had to be crossed which meant Joe would have no cover as he neared the fence. And Joe wanted cover. He suddenly felt exposed and vulnerable, a feeling he'd felt too many times in Afghanistan. It was a well-honed sense and he didn't ignore it – not there, and not now. The feeling was sharp and clear and raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

He was being watched.

He took a few cautious steps in the direction of the fence and the sense of being watched grew stronger. He crouched and crept forward, eyes everywhere, his head barely above the grass. And then – a bullet whizzed past his right ear – the percussive crack of a rifle followed a second later. Joe hit the ground, heart pounding. The bullet had been a good foot from his right ear, thank God, and one thing Joe knew without question was, the weapon wasn't an AK-47. Joe had had plenty of encounters with those in Afghanistan. He and every other combat soldier knew their distinctive crack and pop. It was permanently cemented in their brains. No, this was good ole' American firepower. Most likely an AR-15, semi-automatic, and the shooter was a good shot. Joe was going with the theory that the shot was meant to scare him, not kill him. And in that case, mission accomplished. It had definitely put a fear into Joe. But not for long. He lay hidden in the tall grass, outrage working its way to the surface along with a plan. He had to act fast. He unclipped his phone and punched in Frank's number. Heard the phone ringing. Also heard the approach of two men. They weren't trying to be quiet as they searched for him.

An angry voiced shouted, "Get up! Get up, so we can see you!"

Frank's voice came over the phone, "Hey Joe, what's up?"

Joe spit out dirt and blades of grass and whispered, "Stay on the line and listen."

"Get the fuck up! Now!" Same voice, anger level increased. "You are trespassing on private property!"

Frank again, "What the hell's going on, Joe? Who is that? Where are you?"

"Just listen, Frank." Joe got on his knees and lifted his hands in surrender. The grass came up to his chest. "Everything's cool," Joe shouted to the two muscled men moving toward him. "I'm unarmed."

The men had rifles, and yes, they were AR-15s. The men approached within six feet of Joe and he saw that they wore the same forest green uniform as the gate guard. _Nicholson Dockworks Security_ was embroidered above their right breast pockets, same as the gate guard.

"Get on your feet. Keep your hands in the air where we can see them." It was the same man who'd been doing all the talking. His anger had gone down a notch. Surrender usually did that, made the attacker feel a bit safer.

Joe rose cautiously and pointed his phone so Frank could hear the men. If things went bad, Frank was a witness.

"My brother's on the phone," Joe said. "He's listening to all of this."

The man who had not spoken, took four quick steps, and yanked the phone out of Joe's hand. He looked at the phone, found the end button, and pressed it. "Show's over," he said and tossed the phone at Joe's feet.

The phone immediately rang. Frank calling back. Joe looked from one man to the other. "I need to answer. He's not going to stop calling. If I don't answer, he'll call the police and tell them where I am and what he heard."

The first man, man number one, sneered and said, "Answer. Tell him you're going to be indisposed for a while. No more phone calls. You got that?"

"Got it." Joe bent and picked up his phone. Blades of dry grass and dirt stuck to it. Joe hit the answer button and said, "I'm on the docks. If I don't call you back in thirty minutes, call Detective Ziegler at the Healy Police Department."

Joe saw man number one lift his rifle and take aim.

"End the call," the man said. "We're through messing around."

"Gotta go," Joe said. "Remember, thirty minutes." Joe checked the clock on his phone and held up his hands. "No more calls. We good?"

" _We're_ good, but _you_ may not be," the man said. "You are trespassing on private property."

Joe looked around and spotted a small sign affixed to a tree. It said, "Private Property! No Trespassing!"

Joe turned back to man number one. "Sorry, didn't see the sign. I'm just out for a walk along the river."

"Right. Just out for a walk." Man number one's tone made it clear he did not believe Joe. "Move. That way." He pointed his rifle in the direction he wanted Joe to go. Toward the docks, toward the fence, toward Kyle Nicholson.

Kyle Nicholson.

Joe might get to see him after all. He walked with his hands at his sides, the two men trailing him. They'd slung their rifles over their shoulders, so things felt a little more relaxed.

"I don't understand all this security," Joe said as he walked. "Why does a dock need armed .. um, guards?" Joe wasn't sure _guards_ was the correct word to describe the two men compelling him along a worn, hard-packed path. Joe wondered how many other people had been compelled along this path.

Man number two said, "You stupid or something? People steal things from warehouses. There's a ton of stuff here. Expensive stuff. It would be dumb _not_ to have it guarded."

Joe cast the man a sideways glance. "Okay, I get that. But AR-15s? That's pretty heavy stuff for dock guards."

"You never know what you're going to come up against," man number one said and shoved Joe in the back. "Keep moving. We haven't got all day."

"I'm not here to steal anything," Joe said over his shoulder. "I'm just interested in the docks."

"You and all the hobos hanging around this joint." Number one's gaze swept the surrounding area, looking for movement, any sign of life.

Man number two said, "Fucking hobos. They're like vampires. They go to ground during the day. Can't spot a single one of 'em. Minute it gets dark, they're out in droves."

Joe shook his head, thinking, it took armed guards with AR-15s to keep hobos and other homeless people away from the docks? Joe wasn't completely sold on this line of reasoning. Sure, there was some truth to it, but Joe wondered what else these armed guards were protecting.

Two minutes later, Joe and the guards passed through a gate. It was similar to the main gate. Cameras and an armed guard stood ready. Ready for what, Joe wasn't sure. Two more minutes and Joe was inside a building and being led – or more accurately, forced – down a hall.

Man number one was on a cell phone talking to someone. "Yessir. We're bringing him to your office." He tucked his phone in a holster on his hip and smiled at Joe. "It's your lucky day. You get to meet the big boss himself, Mr. Nicholson."

Joe returned the smile. "Just the man I was hoping to see."

"Yeah? Well, keep that thought."

Joe frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Man number one shoved Joe in the shoulder and nodded down the hall. "Keep moving. Next door on the right is Boss man's office."

Man number two stepped in front of Joe and opened the door. Man number one unceremoniously pushed Joe into the room with the butt of his rifle. It was a large room. A room befitting someone with money. A massive desk sat on nice wooden floors. A big flat screen TV hung on the wall. Framed awards hung on the walls, too. And then there was the man himself. Kyle Nicholson. He was in his mid-fifties. Dark hair with a bit of gray and dark eyes. Mean eyes. He was maybe five-ten. Kind of short, but in relatively good shape. He looked like he could go a few rounds in a fight if he had to.

He nodded at one of the guards, man number one. "Close the door, Deke."

Deke shut the door and he and the other man took up positions on either side of it, rifles held in front of their chests, ready to take action should the situation call for it.

Nicholson turned to Joe. "Let me start by saying I don't like people sneaking around my docks. So, you and me are starting off on the wrong foot. I have questions and I expect answers. Truthful answers. You got all that?"

"Loud and clear," Joe said. He stood with his legs shoulder width apart, hands at his sides, relaxed, but ready should the situation call for it.

"Good," Nicholson said. "Let's start with, who you are and why you're snooping around my docks?"

"Snooping?" Joe huffed in disgust. "I wasn't snooping. I was out for a walk along the river. Beautiful river by the way."

Nicholson looked askew at Joe. "Are you serious? You seriously expect me to believe that load of crap?"

"It's the truth," Joe said evenly. He wagged a thumb at the men at the door. "I was walking along, minding my own business, when one of these two fired a shot at me. Then they dragged me in here. I'd say that's a serious response to someone just walking along the river."

Nicholson snorted. "What's your name, mister I was just out for a walk along the river?"

Joe squared his shoulders and crossed his arms. "Joseph Hardy."

"You got a set of balls on you, Hardy. You know that? Not many people would come in here and give me that line of BS with a straight face."

Joe grinned a little. "My balls are solid brass. Standard Army issue."

That brought Nicholson up short, but only for a second. "Is that supposed to be funny?"

Joe gave the smallest of shrugs. "Sort of."

The line of Nicholson's jaw hardened and he glowered darkly. "I don't do funny, Mr. Hardy and neither do Deke and Travis." Nicholson jerked his head toward the men at the door. "Now, let me be very clear. You have stepped in it, Hardy. You're up to your ankles in it. I've got you on camera trying to get in the main gate. You lied to the guard. Then Deke and Travis catch you sniffing around in the container junkyard and you lie to them about what you're doing. Not the best way to start a conversation with me."

Nicholson stepped closer, perhaps trying to provoke a response from Joe. Joe didn't flinch. He stared into the dark pits that were Nicholson's eyes.

"Now," Nicholson said, "you have twenty seconds to tell me what you're doing sneaking around my property? Oh, and Mr. Hardy, I advise you to consider your answer very carefully."

Joe's eyebrows lowered and a frown darkened his brow. His hands dropped to his sides and curled into fists. "Is that a threat?"

Nicholson chuckled and something dangerous stirred in his eyes. "Not yet. You'll know when I'm threatening you."

Joe lifted his chin and his eyes narrowed. "For the record, I wasn't sneaking around. I've spent the morning trying to reach you. Called your secretary several times. I'm sure she has a log of my calls. She said you weren't around, so I thought, what the hell, I'll drive down here and get a look at your operation. With any luck, I might run into you. I'm a private investigator, investigating the murder of Dan Sagget. All I want is a few minutes of your time, Mr. Nicholson. I have a few questions about Mr. Sagget."

Nicholson studied Joe, sizing him up. Finally, Nicholson waved a hand at a chair and said, "Have a seat, Mr. Hardy. We're going to get a few things straight between you and me."

Joe – ever the optimist – considered this progress and sat in the chair indicated. It was plush and comfortable. A great chair to spend the morning in, if one had the time.

Nicholson took a seat behind his massive desk and pushed a button on his phone. "Jessie, hold all my calls for the next fifteen minutes." With that bit of business out of the way, Nicholson settled his snake-like eyes on Joe.

If pressed, Joe would have to admit that Nicholson made him uncomfortable. Nicholson was _not_ a man to be taken lightly. That much was for sure. He had money and power and both made him dangerous .. even deadly.

"Mr. Hardy, I'm a very busy man. I don't have the time, nor the patience, for private investigators. Especially ones with smart mouths and brass balls."

Joe almost laughed at the brass balls part, but remembered that Nicholson didn't do funny. So, Joe's response was grounded in logic and reason, "One of your employees was killed, Mr. Nicholson. I thought you'd be concerned."

Nicholson picked up a pencil and ran his fingers along its smooth length. He seemed to be mulling over what Joe had said and contemplating his own response. Finally, he looked at Joe. "You're late to the party, Private Investigator Hardy. Police have already been here and asked all their questions. That detective, what's his name?" Nicholson scratched his head with the pencil's eraser. "Ziegler. That's his name." He pointed the pencil at Joe. "That's who you wanna talk to. He's already been here and asked every question he could think of. Took up my valuable time and that of my employees. You understand, Mr. Hardy, that I have no desire to waste my time or that of my employees again with a bunch of useless questions."

Joe ran a tongue over his dry lips. A glass of water would be nice. "I don't think they'd be useless questions. A murder's been committed. A killer's out there somewhere. He might strike again. Don't you want Dan Sagget's killer found and brought to justice? Or doesn't he rate that much concern?"

A polite smile spread across Nicholson's mouth. "You're good. I'll give you that. But Sagget's murder is the police department's job, not mine." Nicholson rose and Joe felt the weight of the man's scowl. "Now, I've wasted enough time on you, Mr. Hardy. My men will see you out." Nicholson gave Deke and Travis a curt, knowing nod.

Joe pushed to his feet. "I can find my own way out, thank you very much."

Nicholson came around his desk. "But you won't. Deke and Travis will escort you out of here and off my property. Oh, and Mr. Hardy, I don't ever want to see you around here again. Is that clear?"

Joe sneered. "Crystal."

Deke and Travis each grabbed one of Joe's arms and roughly propelled him out the door. They forced him along the hallway, through another door, and outside. The bright sunshine hit like a laser beam and Joe squinted beneath the brim of his baseball cap.

Joe tried to wrestle his arms free. "Hey, I can manage from here."

The men tightened their grip and Joe realized he wasn't going anywhere. Not on his own at least.

Deke was the bearer of bad news. "Orders were to escort you _off_ the property. Job's not complete until we do that." He smiled – not a pleasant smile – it spoke of broken bones, other people's broken bones.

Deke and Travis finally released Joe in the shipping container graveyard.

Deke had one last warning, "Watch out for snakes. River's full of them." And then he laughed. Travis joined in.

The two men turned and sauntered back to the docks, still laughing.

Joe wondered what was so funny.

"Thanks for all the hospitality," Joe snarled over his shoulder. He doubted the men heard him. They were still chuckling, still enjoying Deke's little joke. Or was it a joke?

Joe put his head down and headed for his truck. He could feel Deke and Travis' eyes on his back, watching his every step. His phone rang and he answered it. It was Frank. Thirty minutes had passed since they'd spoken.

"Joe? Everything okay?"

"Just dandy. I'm on my way to my truck."

"What happened? I've been sitting here at my desk going crazy, waiting for your call."

The fear and worry in Frank's voice hit Joe hard. "Yeah, sorry about that. Got myself into a situation, but everything's fine now." Joe told Frank all about the _situation_ , told him what had happened that morning. The chain-link fence with the razor wire. The armed guards, the shot, and the meeting with Nicholson.

Frank listened without interrupting. When Joe finished, Frank said, "Nicholson sounds like a dangerous man and, now, you're on his radar. You have to watch your back."

"Plan to." Joe picked up a rock and tried to skip it across the surface of the river. The results were disappointing.

"I can pack and drive to Healy right now. Be there this afternoon," Frank said.

"Don't do that. Not yet anyway." Joe skipped another rock. Much better results. He was getting the hang of it. "I'm coming home on Saturday. We'll talk then and you can come back with me on Monday."

Frank thought it over. "Okay. I'm not one hundred percent happy about leaving you there alone, but I will if you insist. The positive side to this is, I can finish the case I'm working on. Then my time is all yours. We'll work this murder together. You cool with that?"

"Totally. Thanks, bro. Talk to you later."

Joe hooked his phone on his belt and picked up another rock. Held it just right. Angled himself to the river and threw. Beautiful! Six skips at least. Joe smiled and continued on to the rest-stop and his truck.

Forty minutes later, he came up the slight incline that led to his truck. He was hot, thirsty, and hungry when he arrived at his vehicle. His phone said it was twelve thirty-five. A good time for lunch. Joe opened the door of his truck and grabbed a bottled water. Drank half the bottle in one go. Tasted great after the long walk. Joe finished off the bottle and leaned against his truck, mulling thoughts over, replaying his conversation with Nicholson. Something Nicholson had said floated into his mind. _"Ziegler, that's who you wanna talk to."_

Joe thought, what the hell, he'd take Nicholson's advice. He'd called Ziegler. Joe tossed the empty water bottle in his truck and unhooked his phone. Punched in Ziegler's number.

After several rings and a transfer, Ziegler came on the line. "Detective Ziegler, Healy Police Department, how may I help you?"

"Detective Ziegler, Joseph Hardy here. How's it going?"

A pause and then, "Busy, Mr. Hardy. I assume you didn't call just to find out how I'm doing."

"No, actually, I was thinking it would be nice to catch up with you. Let you know how my investigation is going and, maybe, run a few questions by you. I could buy you lunch. We can talk while we eat. You had lunch yet?"

Another pause, then, "Haven't had lunch yet and, with all the big bucks I'm making at this job, I never turn down a free lunch. I can meet you at Sally's Burgers and Beer in twenty minutes. That work for you?"

"Works perfectly. See you there."

Joe got in his truck, pulled out of the rest-stop, and headed to town. A thought occurred to him as he drove. Nicholson was the type of man who wouldn't blink twice at poisoning an animal. Joe didn't think Nicholson would do the actual poisoning himself. He wouldn't need to. From what Joe had seen that morning, Kyle Nicholson had plenty of men willing to follow his orders and do his dirty work. Some of them were probably willing to commit crimes for him. Serious crimes like murder and poisoning.

* * *

 _A/N: As always, a big thank you to those who left a review. I appreciate them and know that it takes time and effort to leave a review, so thank you again._


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Joe pulled into Sally's Burgers and Beer and saw Detective Ziegler getting out of his patrol car. There was a parking spot near Ziegler's and Joe wheeled his truck into it.

Ziegler walked over to greet Joe.

Joe climbed out of his truck and nodded to Ziegler. "Thanks for meeting me."

Ziegler noted Joe's slightly disheveled appearance and lifted a dark eyebrow in question. "Busy morning?"

Joe shut the door of his truck and pocketed his keys. "You could say that."

"I did say that." Ziegler stood calmly waiting for Joe to explain.

"I'll tell you about it over lunch," Joe said and the two men turned and walked into the restaurant.

# # # #

The trailers were down the lane a bit. He stopped several hundred yards short and parked his vehicle up under some stunted trees. He got out and checked his surroundings. Weeds and trees. No people outside. No kids playing on the lane. School didn't let out for another two hours. He pulled the ax from beneath the driver's seat and quietly closed the vehicle's door. Checked his surroundings again and again saw no one on this rutted, gravel lane. A few people should be home. The people living here, in these trashy trailers, were not known to have steady employment. Most were on welfare and sat home all day watching TV. Some would be retirees who didn't make enough to afford anything better. Too bad for them.

Caution was the word of the day. He tucked the handle of the brand new ax into the waistband of his jeans and zipped up his jacket. There, the ax was hidden from view. He turned and walked down the rutted, gravel lane. He veered toward Dolores Gage's trailer. A reproachful sneer lifted one corner of his mouth. The place was a dump. One good thing about it, the covered porch. It was dark up under there. He'd blend right into the shadows.

He climbed the porch steps and walked to the front door. The knob turned readily beneath his hand. He stepped inside, shut the door, and scanned the short hall and beyond to the living room. The sounds of a TV drifted on the stale, nasty air inside the trailer. She was there, probably in the living room, watching TV. And she hadn't heard him come in.

# # # #

Joe and Ziegler were seated in a booth tucked in a back corner away from the other customers. All nice and private. The smell of hamburgers and greasy food saturated the air.

The waitress set two glasses of iced tea on the table and smiled kindly at Ziegler and Joe. "Your burgers will be out shortly. If you need anything else just let me know."

Both men said, thanks, and the waitress left. Both men took a long, thirst quenching gulp of their tea.

Ziegler set his glass down and eyed Joe with interest. "You were going to tell me about your morning."

Joe hung his head and shook it slightly. His morning. An hour removed from the events and he could hardly believe they had actually happened. Oh, but they had. He brought his head up and peered at Ziegler. "Kyle Nicholson. I had a meeting with him this morning. The man's got a lot of security down there at the docks. _His_ docks. You ever suspect something illegal might be going on down there?"

Ziegler chuckled under his breath and leaned back, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "Nicholson. How'd you manage a meeting with him?"

"More like he managed a meeting with me." Joe took another gulp of his tea.

"Explain, please." Ziegler was a man of little patience and Joe was already testing it.

"I tried the traditional way of getting an interview. Called Nicholson's secretary first thing this morning and was given the runaround. Decided I'd drive to the docks and check the place out for myself. Figured I'd walk the perimeter. What harm could it do?" Joe gave a half-hearted shrug. "I found a shipping container graveyard, or junkyard, or whatever you want to call it."

"I'm familiar with the place," Ziegler said. "Several organizations in town have tried to clean it up. Nicholson has interfered with each and every one of their efforts. Seems he likes the place just the way it is."

"Begs the question of why," Joe said and waited for an answer.

Ziegler thought for a second. "It does. I can't remember all the reasons Nicholson has given to keep people out, but suffice it to say, he doesn't want anyone poking around that junkyard."

Joe ran a hand over his chin. "Yeah, I got that message loud and clear. While I was strolling through there, just looking around," Joe's tone was innocent, but Ziegler knew better, "someone took a shot at me with an AR-15. I know for a fact it was an AR-15, got a good look at it, up close and personal."

Ziegler's attention was officially aroused. He leaned forward and placed his forearms on the table. "Someone tried to kill you?"

"Can't say for sure they were trying to kill me. Given what happened afterwards, I'd say the shot was only a warning."

"What happened afterwards?"

Joe told Ziegler the rest of the story, told him basically what he'd told Frank earlier. He also gave Ziegler the names, Deke and Travis. "Have any idea who they are?" Joe asked.

Ziegler scratched his cheek and thought. "Nope, but I can run their names through the system when I get back to the office. The name Deke is unusual enough I might get a hit. He might have committed a petty crime at one time. Or you could press charges, then I could bring him in for questioning. Could probably hold him for reckless endangerment with a firearm _or_ unlawful use of a firearm. Both of which are felonies. I'd learn his last name once I brought him in."

"All very true." Joe hesitated and drew in a breath. His forehead wrinkled into a deep frown. "I thought about pressing charges, but it would just come down to my word against his. It'd be a big waste of police time and you don't need that, not when there's a killer on the loose. The police need to spend their time and energy on finding him. Besides, pressing charges would put me directly in Nicholson's crosshairs."

Ziegler let out a soft snort and grinned. "I think you're already in Nicholson's light of sight. But from what I've learned about you Private Investigator Hardy, you don't scare easily."

Joe cocked his head. "Checked out my background?"

"Wouldn't be doing my job if I hadn't." Joe nodded his agreement and Ziegler continued, "The Police Chief in River Heights speaks highly of you and your partners at the _Endeavor_ _Detective Agency_. I also spoke to a couple of his police officers. They, too, praised you, your brother, and your other partner. They said all three of you are former law enforcement. You and your brother are prior military?"

"Correct," Joe said. "I was an MP in the Army. Did some time in Afghanistan."

"Tough duty over there."

"It was," Joe admitted and left it at that.

"Well, thanks for your service." Ziegler lifted his glass and sipped his tea.

Joe sipped his tea and considered his next words carefully. After some thought, he decided the direct approach was best. Why beat around the bush, just cut right to the chase. Joe set down his glass, leaned forward, and folded his hands together on the table. "Now that you know my background and experience, I'd like to offer my services, sort of. What I mean is, I'd like to work with you on Dan Sagget's murder. I'd like us to share information with each other. Sort of be a team. How do you feel about that?"

Ziegler gave the suggestion some serious thought before responding. "I think we can make it work. There will be some limits on what I can share with you, but for the most part the information sharing can be a two-way street."

"Good," Joe said nodding. "Good." Joe's first objective had been accomplished – working together with the police. Now, on to his second objective – getting more information. "So, what can you tell me about Nicholson, other than he's rich?"

Ziegler smiled. They'd hit upon the whole reason for having lunch. "In my opinion, he's a dangerous man. If I were you, I'd use extreme caution when dealing with him. There's more than one unsolved murder around here that has ties to Nicholson."

Joe stiffened and a hand curled into a fist. "Really? Do you like him for Dan Sagget's murder? Just your personal opinion, of course," Joe clarified.

Ziegler shrugged and his gaze moved around the room, checking to see if anyone was listening to their conversation. "The way I see it, it's not beyond the realm of possibility. From what I gathered during my interviews, Sagget wasn't the greatest employee. He had some bad habits and a tendency to piss people off. Did either of those get him killed? I can't say."

"Bad habits? Such as?"

"He was a womanizer. Word around town is, he had a brief fling with Nicholson's wife, oh, about eight years ago."

Joe was taken aback. This added a new dimension to the case. "Damn. Well, that's .. Sagget and Nicholson's wife?" Joe frowned and shook his head. Eight years ago? That was around the time Dolores Gage and Dan Sagget divorced. Dolores had told Joe that Dan was seeing someone else, someone younger and prettier. Dolores had been jealous and decided to divorce Dan.

"Yeah, Sagget and Nicholson's wife." Ziegler grinned and his eyes gleamed like a cat ready to pounce. "And one of those unsolved murders I mentioned … one of them _was_ Nicholson's wife."

Joe slumped against the cushioned back of the booth like he'd been punched. "You're kidding me."

"Nope. She was murdered about seven years ago. Found in the river. Initially looked like an accidental drowning." Ziegler pinned Joe with a piercing glare. "Until the coroner found ligature marks on her neck. She was straggled before she went in the water."

Revenge, Joe thought. If Nicholson had killed Dan Sagget it would have been out of revenge. Sagget's murder had _personal_ written all over it. Someone had hated the man. Profoundly hated him. You didn't hit someone with an ax twenty or more times just for the fun of it. You were taking out your hate, your anger, your … _vengeance_ on the man.

The waitress suddenly appeared with their food. "Here you go, gentlemen. Two Sally burgers with fries."

# # # #

 _I'm here_. _Here to kill you_.

Payment for the past. She was just as responsible as Dan Sagget for what had happened.

He crept down the hall, three soft steps, and peered into the living room. There she was, slumped in her recliner, snoozing. Beer cans were stacked on an end table. Snubbed out cigarettes filled an ashtray. He found it all disgusting. Filthy. She'd never amounted to much. But then, she'd never tried to.

He approached her, his footfalls quiet on the stained carpet. He hovered over her. Unzipped his jacket and freed the ax from his waistband.

She groaned and her eyes fluttered open. Even semiconscious, she sensed his presence and looked up. Saw him with the ax. Realization filtered in, making her more alert. Her eyes went wide as fear invaded.

"No," she rasped. "Please. No."

"Yes," he whispered and the ax cleaved into her forehead.

The blow killed her, but his fury begged for more. It took ten further blows to satisfy his rage.

# # # #

Joe looked at Ziegler and spoke around a bite of hamburger, "Sagget's murder was personal. Someone hated the man."

Ziegler nodded, chewing a fry. "That's how I see it. A crime of passion."

"Yeah," Joe said. "And we have two good suspects for the killer."

One of Ziegler's dark brows rose in question. "You're including Wayne Banyan as a suspect?"

Joe gave a helpless shrug. "Can't really rule him out. I took your advice and interviewed his family and friends. Found out all about the childhood abuse. Sounds like it was pretty bad and a good motive for murder."

Ziegler studied Joe for a minute then nodded, a pleased expression on his face. "Now, I know we can work as a team. You're willing to consider your army buddy as a suspect."

"I'd be stupid if I didn't," Joe admitted. Inside, he felt disloyal to Wayne. "However, back to Nicholson. The fling between Sagget and his wife was eight years ago. Why not kill the man then. Why wait all these years to kill him?"

Ziegle took a long gulp of his tea, set the glass down, and said, "Let me give you a little history lesson. I've lived and worked in this town for twelve years. Got the job right out of the Police Academy. Thought, this is great, a small town on the river. Won't be much crime here. Should be an easy job, plenty of time to spend with my wife and kids. Things didn't quite work out that way. I soon found out that this small town had just as much corruption as a big city, maybe more, and Kyle Nicholson was at the center of all of it. He's been a thorn in my side ever since I arrived. And you're right, I do suspect something illegal's going on at the docks. What? Don't know yet, but I'm working on it. Now, as to Nicholson and why he'd wait seven years to kill someone, well, I don't think he waited willingly. He was forced to wait. What I'm trying to say is, he didn't know who his wife's lover was until recently."

Joe didn't look convinced. "You have proof of any of that?"

"Sort of. Nicholson's wife's name was Linda. I worked her murder, technically, I'm still working her murder. Over the years, I've talked to three of her closest friends. All three have told me the same thing. Nicholson found some steamy letters Dan had written to Linda. Dan was smart enough not to sign his real name and that saved his skin. Nicholson confronted Linda with the letters and she admitted to the affair, said she was sorry and that the affair had ended. That, however, didn't appease Nicholson. He wanted the man's name. Linda was a strong willed woman and wouldn't give it up. Nicholson used threats and even got physical with Linda, but she stood her ground and kept her mouth shut. I think she knew that withholding the name was the only thing keeping her alive. She told her friends that once Nicholson had the man's name they were both as good as dead. Nicholson would kill them both and make it look like an accident."

"She ever think about leaving town?"

"Plenty of times. But Nicholson basically had her locked up in that big house of theirs. Took away her phone and computer, and had employees stationed at the house as if they were guards. When her friends didn't hear from her in over a day, they called the police. We went out there and removed Linda from the house. She stayed with a friend for a few weeks and was getting ready to move back east when she was found floating in the river."

"Damn," Joe hissed, saddened by Linda's untimely death. Wait, scratch that, her untimely murder.

Ziegler ran a French fry through some ketchup. "I have a source inside Nicholson's dock."

Joe's brow rose in mild surprise and admiration. "An inside source. Good move."

Ziegler smiled, chewed his French fry, and swallowed. "I may be a small town cop, but I'm not dumb. Anyway, my source was at a meeting with Nicholson and several other higher ups when Nicholson got a call. He took the call right there in front of them and what he said got their attention. He said, and I quote, 'That son of a bitch. He's a dead man.'"

"When was this call in relation to Dan Sagget's murder?"

"Barely a month before he was killed."

"Interesting timing," Joe said. "If it was Dan Sagget Nicholson was referring to, I wonder how he finally got the name."

"More interesting timing," Ziegler said. "A couple of days before that call, one of Linda's friends was in a bad car accident. Her brakes gave out. Her teenage daughter was in the car with her and they're both lucky to be alive."

"You think some of Nicholson's men might have been putting pressure on the friend, trying to get her to talk, to give up the name?"

"Yep. I talked to the other two friends and found out that they've all experienced some near misses – weird accidents – over the past seven years. They also told me they've all gotten calls in the middle of the night warning them that their lives were in danger. The calls would rotate from woman to woman and had no set pattern. The women said they could go six months without a call and then boom, a call."

"What did the caller say? Did he ask for the name of Linda's lover?" Joe wiped his hands and mouth on a napkin and leaned back. The hamburger had been delicious and had satisfied his hunger completely.

"According to the women, the caller was a man. His voice was muffled so they can't identify him, but his words, they remember. He always ended with the same words, 'You know what to do to protect yourself and your family. Mail the answer to Nicholson Dockworks.'"

Joe took a sip of tea and said, "Meaning mail the _name_. If Nicholson did kill Sagget then that means one of the women finally sent in his name."

"The one in the car accident." Ziegler withheld the woman's name. Joe didn't need to know it. "She told me she couldn't live like this anymore. She wanted out from under the threats. She wasn't going to put her children's lives on the line ever again."

"Can't say I blame her," Joe said. "And everything you've just told me makes Nicholson look a lot more guilty than Banyan."

Ziegler gave Joe a thin smile. "I like to keep an open mind. Nothing is as simple or as clear cut as it seems."

Joe returned the smile. "Roger that."

Ziegler's pager buzzed and he looked down. "It's dispatch. I gotta take this. Outside."

"I'll pay and meet you out front," Joe said.

Ziegler got up and pulled his phone free as he headed for the exit. Joe flagged down the waitress and paid. By the time he got outside, Ziegler was getting in his patrol car.

Joe jogged up to the vehicle, put a hand on the roof, and peered in through the open window. "What's up?"

Ziegler had on his cop face. "Another murder. Dolores Gage. I'm on my way to her trailer."

"I'm right behind you," Joe said and dashed to his truck.

* * *

 _A/N: Hey, thanks everyone for the reviews on the last chapter. I especially wanted to thank the Guest reviewer for pointing out my mistake - which I fixed - and for pointing out Joe's line that she liked. I'm pretty sure I know which one she means. :) Really, thank you all for leaving a few words to let me know what you thought. Seems we're all interested in what's going on at the docks. LOL Well, we will find out, but it will take a while and Frank's help. ;)_


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Law enforcement arrived in a cacophony of noise and flashing lights. The wail of sirens and the screech of tires soon followed. Doors and trunks opened and then slammed shut. This little rutted, gravel lane had never seen so much chaos. Organized chaos of course.

Ziegler parked in front of a trailer located about sixty feet from Dolores Gage's trailer. Two patrol cars were already onsite, their lights flashing, painting the nearby trailers in a wash of red and blue. Two uniformed officers – weapons holstered, but hands near the butts – controlled the scene. Ziegler got out of his vehicle and readied his badge. Joe swung in and parked next to Ziegler.

Ziegler waited as Joe climbed out of his truck. "Got your PI badge?" Ziegler asked.

"Yes." Joe's gaze drifted to Dolores Gage's trailer, the patrol cars, and back.

"Put it around your neck and try and look professional," Ziegler said.

"Yessir." Joe yanked his badge out of his jeans' pocket and draped the lanyard around his neck. He wished he was dressed more appropriately. Good slacks and a dress shirt would have been nice. Oh well, couldn't do a thing about that now.

Joe and Ziegler walked up the officers. Ziegler held out his badge to identify himself.

One of the officers tipped his hat. "Detective Ziegler, you got the call, huh?"

Ziegler nodded and said, "This is Investigator Hardy. He's working with me on the Dan Sagget case."

The officer, Sergeant Ashby, nodded at Joe. The other officer took note of Joe, but kept his attention mainly focused on Dolores Gage's trailer.

"What've we got?" Ziegler asked Ashby.

"One victim. Older woman. Appears to have been killed with an ax. Walker and Tuttle are inside with the victim and her son."

Joe's head snapped up. "Her son?"

Ashby's head swiveled toward Joe. "Yeah, her son's the one who found her and called it in."

Ziegler looked around, at the surrounding trailers and cars. "Any witnesses?"

"No one was outside when we arrived," Ashby said. "I've seen a few people peeking out their windows, but no one's come out to talk to us or ask questions."

"I'll have Walker and Tuttle start questioning the neighbors. I want you and," Ziegler looked at the other officer's nametag, "Phillips to cordon off this lane. No one's allowed to leave and no one's allowed to enter until I say so."

"Yessir."

Zeigler had one more question, "Has the ME been notified?"

"Yessir, Walker called it in. ME's on his way."

"Thanks, Ashby. Hardy and I will go in now."

# # # #

He was covered in blood. That's how they found him. Covered in blood and sitting on his haunches, staring at his mother's lifeless body. Someone, probably a coroner, would determine the precise time of her death later.

Wayne held back the sob trying to escape. Why he felt like sobbing for this wretched woman he had no idea. She didn't warrant his sympathy nor his grief. If that's what he was feeling. It might have been a whole different feeling, one he wasn't willing to address.

He heard Joe's voice. It sounded far away, like it was spoken in a wind tunnel.

"Wayne? Banyan?"

Wayne shook his head and looked up. Joe was here, standing beside him. Joe looked down at him with a perplexed expression.

"Wayne, you okay?"

Why was Joe asking if he was okay? Couldn't Joe see that he was fine? It was his mother who wasn't doing so well. That's who Joe should've been asking about.

Wayne looked at his mother. Didn't really look like her any more. Her face was .. was ruined. Hard to tell if it was really her.

"Wayne, we have some questions."

Joe again. He was becoming annoying. Wayne scowled. Joe needed to leave.

"Mr. Banyan, could you please stand and step away from the body?"

A new voice. One Wayne had heard before. Long time ago though. Wayne scowled as he fought to remember whose voice it was.

"Mr. Banyan, now. We need you to stand and step away from the body. If you don't, we'll have to use force."

Someone moved to Wayne's right. A uniformed officer. He was pulling a taser gun off his belt.

Oh, no. Hell, no.

Wayne surged to his feet, heart pounding and eyes wild. He swayed on his feet and Joe reached out a hand to steady him.

Wayne felt sick. Lightheaded. He was going to faint …

# # # #

Three hours later he was in an interrogation room at the Healy Police Station, one wrist handcuffed to the metal table. A paper cup, filled with water, sat in front of him. He ran a hand through his dark hair. What the hell had happened? The day was like a kaleidoscope, twisting and turning, changing and shifting from one scene to another. Some of those scenes were gruesome and Wayne wanted nothing to do with those.

The door opened and a man in a business suit walked in. He had a notepad and pen in one hand. A guard shut the door and the man laid his notepad and pen on the table and took a seat across from Wayne.

"I'm Detective Ziegler. We've met. I came to your home when your stepfather was killed. Searched your yard and found some gloves."

Yeah, now Wayne remembered. The voice he couldn't remember …

"I'm going to ask you a few questions about your mother. Are you well enough to answer a few questions, Mr. Banyan?"

Was he well enough? The doctors at the hospital had said he was. They had checked him out and deemed him fit. Ready for duty. Sure, he'd had a major shock at finding his mother in the condition he'd found her in. Something like that would shock anybody. It had caused his lightheadedness and confusion. But a little rest and some fluids and he was good as new. Or so the doctors had said and released him into police custody.

Now the police were ready to interrogate him.

"Mr. Banyan, I ask you again, are you well enough to answer a few questions?"

The detective sounded irritated. Just the way Wayne felt. Irritated.

"We can hold you overnight and question you in the morning."

Was that a threat? Keep him locked in a cell overnight. No, he couldn't have that. No, no, no. He had to get home to Bulka. How long had he been gone from home? He searched the walls for a clock. Nothing there. Just gray walls and no windows. One door with a guard on the other side.

The room was small and claustrophobic. And Wayne wanted out.

"I .. I can answer questions." His voice was gravely like he'd gone days without water. He looked at the water in front of him and thought about drinking it. Would that show weakness? He didn't want to appear weak. Not in front of the detective.

"Good. That's good, Mr. Banyan."

The detective looked pleased and Wayne felt relieved.

Wayne was released three hours later. In the end the detective was disappointed. Wayne had not said much.

# # # #

Joe and Ziegler stood in Ziegler's office. Joe had watched the interrogation from an observation room. It had not gone well. Was Banyan still in shock and his memory impaired? Joe shook his head. He wasn't sure what to make of Wayne.

Ziegler looked viciously unhappy. "Gets a phone call from someone he can't identify? I don't buy it." Ziegler was almost shouting.

"Not that hard to believe," Joe countered. "Fits in with the phone calls the women got. Those friends of Linda Nicholson. They said their caller was male and his voice was muffled. They couldn't identify their caller either."

"If," Ziegler emphasized, " _if_ , Banyan even got a call. Someone calls to tell him he needs to check on his mother? I'm not so sure about that. Sounds too convenient."

Joe pinned Ziegler with a glare. "Right now, Banyan's word is all we've got. You can trace his phone records. See if he got a call."

"Already in the works. Not holding my breath." Ziegler plopped into his chair behind his desk. He looked exhausted. The clock on his desk said it was close to nine pm. Past his children's bedtime. His wife had already given them a bath, read them a story, and put them to bed. All without him.

He picked up a pencil and broke it in half. Damn! Another night of missing his kids. Another night of not saying good-night and kissing them, or tucking them in bed.

"What's up with you?" Joe asked.

Ziegler lifted his head. "Missing my family. And feeling frustrated with this case." He ran a weary hand down his cheek and over his chin. "Dolores Gage's murder .. this .. this puts Banyan at the top of the suspect list. I can't see any reason why Nicholson would kill her."

Joe heaved in a breath and let it out slow. "Okay, I admit it looks bad for Banyan. But what did you say at lunch? You like to keep an open mind. Nothing is as simple or as clear cut as it seems."

Ziegler grunted and smirked. "Using my own words against me."

"If the shoe fits." Joe grinned without mirth.

Ziegler pushed away from his desk and stood. "Let's get the hell outta here. I want to see my wife and kids. There's nothing else we can do tonight. We can go at Banyan again tomorrow. See if his story stays the same."

"Sounds good to me." Joe led the way out of the office.

# # # #

Joe drove in the direction of his hotel, but he wasn't committed to actually going to it. It had been a long, hard day and he wanted something to relax his nerves and relieve his frustration. Something cold to drink would be nice. He started looking for bars.

The Tavern on the River came into view and Joe made a hard left. He pulled into the parking lot and, now that he was there, noticed the rundown appearance of the place. Maybe he should keep looking.

He killed the engine. One place was as good as another for a beer. Beer came out of a tap. Hard to screw that up. One beer and then he'd head to his hotel.

The Tavern on the River looked like the kind of place where a person went to get thoroughly wasted before going home to face whatever awaited him there. Angry wife, noisy kids. Maybe empty rooms and depressing pasts. Depressing futures, too. Who knew?

In spite of his misgivings, Joe got out of his truck and headed for the door.

One beer and then to his hotel.

It was gloomy inside. Most of the light came from two big TVs. One was tuned to sports and the other featured a news reporter giving an update on the latest murder in Healy, Illinois. Great, just what Joe did not want to listen to. Fortunately, the sound was muted on both TVs. Soft rock music filled the room. Joe could live with that. He liked old rock and roll music.

The crack of wooden balls on a pool table drew Joe's attention. Two guys, around his age, were having a friendly game. One nodded at Joe as he made his way to the bar and Joe nodded back.

Three old guys sat at one end of the bar, kind of bunched together. They were slouched over their drinks, hands wrapped around their glasses. They gave off the desolate air of having pulled off the highway of life long ago. This was where they spent their afternoons and evenings. Nothing much happened in their lives. Nothing to get excited about. All three turned in unison and stared at Joe.

Someone new had wandered into their world. Would wonders never cease?

Joe took a seat at the bar. Left two seats between himself and the old guys. A bar matron – and matron was the correct word – sashayed over. A megawatt smile creased her heavily made up face. She was well past her prime and gliding into her late fifties. That still put her ten to fifteen years younger than the old guys.

Her eyes traveled in a long, obscene gesture from Joe's blond hair all the way down to his tennis shoes. Joe felt physically violated.

"Well, now," the woman said, "aren't you're a tall drink of water?" Then she cackled like a witch, thoroughly enjoying herself, and laid a hand on her ample chest. "Damn, I've always wanted to say that. And as you can see," her hand swept over the old guys, "I ain't ever had the chance."

She heaved her hefty bosom on the countertop – giving Joe an unwanted eye full of cleavage – and said, "What can I get ya, handsome?"

Joe looked at the old guys who were still gawking at him. The bar matron turned her head and raked them with a dirty look. All three dropped their heads and stared hard into their glasses.

An older gentleman appeared behind the counter. He was drying a glass with a towel. His body language said he was in charge and so did his tone. "Wanda, you're supposed to serve the customers, not scare 'em."

Wanda rolled her eyes and shrugged a shoulder.

One of the old guys muttered into his glass, "Don't scare me."

The guy next to him mumbled, "Scares me .. a little."

Wanda pushed off the counter and glared at the men. "What's that you said, Irv?"

The man in charge stepped in. "Wanda. See what the new guy wants, will ya?"

Wanda glowered another second at the trio then turned to Joe. Gave him that megawatt smile again. She had nice teeth. Joe would give her that.

"So, what you want, handsome?"

Joe was ready to call it a night. Cut his losses and leave. His hankering for a beer had died a quick and silent death. He was easing himself off the bar stool when the door opened and three men walked in.

They were big men in T-shirts and faded jeans, their faces lined from sun and wind. Joe watched them maneuver around tables and head straight for him. They came up and flanked him. One stood in front of him. Clearly the leader of the pack. The other two positioned themselves on either side of him. Clearly the followers.

All three men moved like they'd done this before. Confronting people. Most likely they had a long history of confronting people in bars, or parking lots, or other places suitable for confronting individuals.

The leader moved slightly, just enough to change the geometry between himself and Joe and the other two men. The movement said, _I'm in charge. Pay attention to me_.

One corner of Joe's mouth twitched. He didn't like being confronted and wasn't easily intimidated. Certainly not by these three. They were all north of thirty-five years old. Closer to forty and getting pudgy. Well, the leader was pudgy. The followers were in better shape. They had thick necks and bulging biceps. Did they know how to fight? Joe figured, probably not. These guys got by on appearance alone. They looked scary and, around these parts, scary was probably enough to cow most people.

Joe wasn't most people. Scary didn't work on him. He's seen scarier guys in Afghanistan. The guys in Afghanistan came packing bombs and RPGs (rocket propelled grenades.) These idiots had nothing on the guys in Afghanistan.

These three were more akin to the three Stooges, bumbling their way through a shake down. Definitely not the brightest students in the class. Joe had already named them: Dumb, Dumber, and Dumbest. Between the three of them they might have one fully functional brain.

The leader of the pack – Mr. Dumb – rubbed his nose and crossed his arms. "You're new around here," he said to Joe.

Okay, Joe thought, introduction time. These men knew exactly who Joe was. He had no doubt about that and he had no doubt about who had sent them. Only one question. How had they found him? Had they been following him since he left Nicholson's office that morning?

Joe looked from one beefy man to the next. "I'm a private investigator looking into the death of Dan Sagget. But I have a feeling you already know that."

"Why do you care about Dan Sagget?" the leader said. His arms were still crossed tight against his chest and he was looking at Joe like he was a naughty kid who'd been sent to the principal's office.

"A man died. Somebody needs to care," Joe said and his gaze moved from one man to the next.

"I worked with Dan Sagget. He doesn't deserve your concern."

"Must've been a great employee." Joe's tone was leaden with sarcasm.

The two followers chuckled, chuckled in a way that said this was irony at its best.

One swatted the air with a hand and said, "Yeah, he was the greatest employee ever. Don't come no better 'n Dan Sagget."

More laughter. Who cared about a man being dead? He was worthless anyway. Someone did the world a favor by getting rid of him.

Joe understood the thinking. Only problem with it was, who decided which individuals were worthless? The guy at the top? And at what point did other – capable and innocent – people suddenly become worthless and need to be killed? When they interfered with someone's plans?

Yeah, there were a whole lot of problems with thinking a person's death didn't matter. But this wasn't the time or the place to discuss it.

The man in charge of the bar said, "Take it outside."

Joe looked at him as if to say, _take what outside?_ But he knew exactly what the man meant.

And in case Joe didn't, the man added, "I don't want no fights in here. Ya'll hear me?"

Mr. Dumb glanced at the bar man. "We hear you." Then his head rotated and his gaze landed square on Joe still seated at the bar. "We're gonna take this outside like the man said."

"Are we?" Joe knew full well they were and that was fine by him. Part of him was itching for a fight. He hadn't run in two days and hadn't gone a round with the punching bag in almost a week. And after what he'd been through today, he needed a release, a way to let off some pent up aggression.

Mr. Dumb dropped his arms to his sides and his hands curled into fists. His flinty eyes narrowed. "We are."

"We heard you're ex-Army. Got some brass balls on ya. Think you're real tough." This from the one built like a tank. All muscle and no brain. But he had confirmed Joe's suspicions. Nicholson _had_ sent them.

Joe eyeballed each man and shrugged. "Guess we're going outside." He pushed off the bar stool and the three men backed up a step to give him room.

Joe felt the rush of adrenaline. The body's preparation for fight or flight. A useful sensation, especially in this situation. Joe followed the three men outside, out into the cool night air. A big bulb affixed to a tall pole threw a circle of light on the ground. The men gravitated toward it. There was comfort in light. In this case, that was surely an illusion.

The cool air flooded Joe's bloodstream and charged into his muscles. The men spun round and faced Joe. He stood square on to the group of three. Best way to deal with an attack was straight on. And there was going to be an attack. Joe had no doubts about that.

Joe's back was to the street. That was good if he had to run. Quick and easy escape route. He highly doubted he would run. Joe hadn't run from a fight since he was in middle school.

The leader – Mr. Dumb – faced Joe, stood about two and a half feet from him. Perfect punching distance. To Joe's right was Mr. Tank. He was the one Joe was worried about. That guy had big hands and big arms. The guy to Joe's left looked like he was having second thoughts about tonight's activities. Looked like he might be the one to run.

Joe smiled and said, "Hope you gentlemen have health insurance."

Mr. Dumb snorted. "It's three against one, kid. You're the one who's gonna need health insurance."

Then someone came at Joe with a ready fist. It was Mr. Dumb. Had to show the other two how it was done and that he was brave. Joe turned and the blow caught him on the left cheek just in front of the ear. Stung a little and hurt a lot. Mr. Dumb still had some power in his punches.

Joe's right hand flicked out and back, moving at the speed of light. Okay, maybe not quite that fast, but damned fast. His fingers squeezed into a fist and he hit Mr. _Tank_ in the face. Not much force in the blow. Joe didn't need it. The idea was simply to freeze Mr. Tank for a second and it did. Tank was expecting Joe to aim for Mr. Dumb. Mr. Dumb had been expecting the same thing. Now everybody was confused. Just the way Joe wanted it.

The men stood there dumbfounded. Only for a moment, but that was all Joe needed.

His right hand was on the way back, all warmed up and ready for the real deal, a right hook. A violent twist at the waist and shoulders poured force and energy into Joe's fist. He spun and hit Mr. Dumb smack in the middle of his throat. Dumb went down like a house of cards, gagging and coughing.

On to Tank. Joe was unwinding from the twist and pivoting into an equal and opposite left hook. Mr. Tank saw the blow coming, but way too late. He'd been caught up in watching Mr. Dumb fall. Now, Tank brought his hands up, one to block and the other to throw a punch. Again, way too late. Joe's fist plowed into his throat and snapped back like it was on a spring. Joe watched Tank sink to the ground, one hand at his throat, the other stretched out, trying to break his fall. He collapsed in a heap and groaned.

Joe stepped back, fists high and ready, and looked at the last guy standing.

Mr. Unsure stood there looking scared. Should he run? Should he show some guts and at least throw a punch? His buddies were writhing on the cold, hard pavement. Groaning like injured animals. A pitiful sound that made his skin crawl.

Joe lowered his fists and his shoulders came down. "Listen, I'll make you a deal. You don't mess with me and I won't mess with you."

The guy dipped his head a couple of times. It wasn't that he totally agreed with what Joe said, but more like he was willing to go along with the sentiment. He would agree with anything that kept him from getting punched in the throat.

Joe motioned the guy closer. "Come here."

The guy hesitated, thinking, this was a trap. Get him close and pulverize him.

Joe held up his hands. "I'm not going to hurt you. We made a deal. I just want to give you a message to take back to your boss."

The guy took a tentative step closer. Not close enough for Joe to land a punch if that was his intention.

"Okay," Joe said, "here's the message. Tell Nicholson nothing's going to stop me. I was in the U.S. Army and we don't quit until the job's done. You got that?"

"G-got it." The guy's eyes were wide as saucers. "H-how'd you know ..."

"That your boss is Nicholson?" Joe grinned. "Brass balls. Tell him they're still intact and I plan to keep them that way."

Joe gave the guy a little salute and walked to his truck. Wanda and the three old guys were at the door of the bar. They had seen the whole fight.

Wanda yelled, "You want a drink, handsome?" And then laughed. More a cackle really.

Joe didn't turn around. Just shook his head and kept walking to his truck.

He felt a hell of a lot better. More relaxed. All the tension of the last few days was gone. Hell, he might even have a beer. He could buy one in the hotel lobby and drink it in his room while he called Vanessa.

A smile split his face. Yeah, that was exactly what he'd do.

* * *

 _A/N: Thank you dear readers and reveiwers. Someone asked if Nancy will help out and the answer is yes. She and Vanessa both have larger parts in the story, later on. I don't like to give too much away in my notes so I'll leave it at that. Special thanks to the reviewers. I tried to respond to each of you. Very sorry if I missed you. I like how you all are trying to figure out who the murderer is. :)_


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Vanessa said good-bye to Joe, set her phone on the bedside table, and laid back on her bed. She stretched to her full length of five foot-eight inches and curled her toes. It felt good to stretch, to loosen her muscles. Her days, the last few anyway, had been spent in a constant state of subtle tension. Many of her working hours were spent wondering and worrying about Joe, asking the important questions: What was he doing and had he gotten himself into trouble? He had a knack for finding trouble. Or was it the other way around? Trouble had a knack for finding him.

Joe claimed it came with the job, with being a detective. That was true, but Vanessa knew there was a part of Joe that liked the 'trouble' part. He craved action and adventure. Rising a little hell, too. Finding trouble wasn't always a bad thing for Joe Hardy. A part of him missed the Army, the suiting up, armed to the teeth, looking for bad guys.

Vanessa shook her head and sighed. Tonight, Joe had been in a fight. He'd told Vanessa all about it. _Over in five seconds_ , he'd said, as if that made it okay. She found it slightly disturbing. It wasn't the fight per say that had her worried – no, Joe could take care of himself, he'd proven that to her on previous cases – it was the idea that he was now on someone's radar. He'd said as much. _Got a bull's eye on my back._

Great. Just what she did not want to hear.

God, how she wanted him here .. beside her .. in her arms. He'd be safe here with her.

Stay here and never leave, she thought. Then dismissed the thought. That wasn't who Joe was. He wanted to fight the bad guys of this world. Take them down one by one. She would never change that about him and, honestly, she didn't want to.

However, she missed him terribly – an ache in her heart. She twirled the ring on her finger, an engagement ring, a precious and cherished heirloom. The ring was from the late 1800s. Vanessa held up her hand and eyed the gems glistening in the dim glow of the bedside lamp. A small diamond was set in the center and surrounded by eight semi-precious stones.

The ring had belonged to Joe's great-grandmother and had been passed down through the family. It had finally come to rest with Joe's mother, Laura Hardy, and she had given her overwhelming approval for Vanessa to have the ring.

It was an honor that still humbled Vanessa. She brought her hands together and laid them on her stomach. If she and Joe ever had a daughter this ring would one day be hers. Vanessa's eyes welled at the thought. She and Joe having a family. Two children, God willing. That would be perfect bliss.

But, if Vanessa wanted to create a life with Joe – and she most certainly did – she had to accept the not so pleasant part of his job. The loneliness. He would be gone and she would be alone .. and empty. He felt the same, she reminded herself. And for him, it was harder. Life didn't get much lonelier than sitting in a hotel room miles away from your family and friends.

Vanessa also reminded herself that she and Joe were not the only people in the world experiencing this loneliness. Athletes, politicians, and entertainers – just to name a few – traveled all over the world, leaving their loved ones behind.

No, Vanessa was not alone in this aspect of Joe's job. Rather, she was one of many. That knowledge brought some comfort. She was not alone.

She turned her thoughts to her upcoming wedding. It was set for December. A double wedding. Joe's brother, Frank, and his fiancée, Nancy, were getting married the same day. Vanessa had only known Nancy a short time – two years – but already Nancy was a trusted and cherished friend. Days ago, the women had gone shopping for wedding dresses. What fun that had been. Remembering the day brought a smile to Vanessa's lips.

Vanessa had narrowed her choices to two dresses. This weekend, when Joe came home, she would have him choose the dress he liked best.

Yes, it was against classic wedding tradition. The groom wasn't supposed to see the bride in the wedding dress before the big day. That really wasn't important to Vanessa. For her, it was important for Joe to love the dress as much as she did.

This was Vanessa's second marriage. At the first wedding, she had done everything by the book, all very traditional, and, well, that marriage hadn't turned out so great. Actually, it had been horrible. She'd married an abusive man and was lucky to escape his grasp relatively unscathed. She had escaped to River Heights, Illinois, to her Aunt and Uncle's insurance business. Aunt Muriel had offered Vanessa a job and she had gladly, gratefully, taken it.

Best decision of her life. The office next door to Aunt Muriel's was a detective agency – Joe's business. Vanessa had walked into the _Endeavor Detective Agency_ one sunny afternoon to assess damages (for an insurance claim) from a gunfight. That had kind of scared her. A gunfight? Right next door? How often did this detective agency get shot up? So far, only the one time. But that first impression had given Vanessa an indication of the kind of life Joe lived. A dangerous one to say the least.

Had that stopped her from being attracted to the handsome man seating behind a desk? Not one bit. She figured she'd fallen in love with Joe that first day.

Vanessa and Joe's courtship hadn't been a traditional courtship, so why should their wedding be traditional? Vanessa would conform to tradition when it suited her and abandon tradition when it didn't.

Oh my, how wild she sounded. Vanessa giggled at her silliness. Actually, most people would consider all of this very tame.

Vanessa and Joe tame? Hardly. One thing about them, they had something special. An unbreakable bond. She had felt it the minute she'd met Joe. He'd felt it, too, he'd told her. They had been two lost souls looking for love without even realizing it. Now, their love for each other made them whole. They were a set, like a pair of gloves or a pair of socks. You really needed both. The set didn't function quite so well when one glove or sock was missing.

Since the moment they'd met, they'd moved forward and rarely looked back. Their courtship had been fast. Lustful at first. Searing hot. But the flames of desire had simmered into a deep and abiding love. He was the only man for her and, she, the only woman for him.

She rolled onto her side and put a hand under her pillow. Snuggled her head into the downy softness and closed her eyes. Envisioned Joe beside her, sleeping soundly. When he slept, he slept deeply. But the slightest noise would awaken him. He'd jerk fully awake, thrust a hand over the side of the bed and grope for a rifle that wasn't there.

A reflex from the war, he said and she understood. The war hadn't completely left him. Not yet, but those startle reflexes were becoming less prominent. Joe was readapting to civilian life. All good. All steps in the right direction. Vanessa hoped Joe kept moving in that direction. And to that end, she wanted to help him. Be a small part of his investigation. Be a partner to him, not just in love, but in his investigative business, too.

To that end, she'd spent an hour – before Joe called – researching Kyle Nicholson. Joe had mentioned the name the previous night. Said the man was a big deal in Healy and might be connected to the murder Joe was investigating.

One of the benefits of being an insurance agent was the fact that Vanessa had access to several databases the average citizen didn't. She could not abuse that access or her job would be on the line. What she searched for and how many times she searched a particular subject or person was monitored at some level, somewhere. So of course, she'd been very careful in her searches. Didn't want to raise any red flags anywhere.

Vanessa had also searched the internet – always a good source of information – and she'd found out real quick that Nicholson was bad news. Several unsolved murders were connected to his name or business, _Nicholson Dockworks_. She'd told Joe all of this on the phone tonight. He hadn't seemed surprised. Joe said Nicholson owned most of the town's docks and probably had some illegal activities going on down there at his warehouses. What those activities were, Joe didn't have a clue. Yet. Joe planned to dig into that when he had a chance. Unfortunately, a new murder had sidetracked him today.

Vanessa propped herself on an elbow, reached for the blanket at the foot of her bed, and pulled it over her legs. A fleece blanket, warm and cozy and just what she needed. The thought of another murder had given her a chill.

Back to Nicholson. He had quite a past. Murdered wife seven years ago. An employee murdered about four years ago and now another employee murdered. Vanessa wondered if the three murders were connected in some way.

Exactly what kind of business was Nicholson running? Three people associated with him had been murdered within a span of seven years. Seemed Nicholson might not be a man a person wanted to hang around with. Associating with Nicholson could be detrimental to one's health.

Vanessa shivered. And Joe was right in the middle of it. Investigating. Making himself a nuisance. Vanessa didn't think Nicholson would take kindly to Joe's investigation. Not if Nicholson had skeletons in his closet. Say, some old secrets he wanted to keep hidden. No, Nicholson would want Joe to stay far, far away. The three men that had confronted Joe tonight were Nicholson's way of telling Joe to back off.

Well, they'd had the opposite effect. Joe was now more determined than ever to find out what Nicholson was hiding. And Vanessa was right there with him, more determined than ever to help him.

After she told Joe about the databases she had access to, Joe asked her to look up a few things. Like all of Nicholson's holdings: his homes, his properties, and precisely how many docks did the man own?

Vanessa promised Joe she would start her research first thing in the morning. She would get up early and search before going to work. She would find every scrap of information on Nicholson she could and then forward all of that information to Joe.

She brushed a strand of ash-blond hair off her face and rolled onto her back. She was tired, but not sleepy. Thoughts of Nicholson and those murders had put her on edge. Stirred up her adrenaline. She wasn't going to sleep until she had some answers regarding Nicholson.

Why not start her search now?

She glanced at the clock on her phone. Ten-thirty p.m. Still early.

Vanessa kicked off the fleece blanket and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She would make some tea and do a little research tonight. Something important might come to light.

One could hope.

She pushed off the bed and headed to the kitchen.

* * *

 _A/N: As always a huge thank you to anyone who has left a review. Those are very much appreciated. A special note for anyone interested in Joe's proposal and Vanessa's engagement ring: those events are presented in the last chapter of the story "Home for Christmas."_


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Friday morning, 8:30 a.m. Joe was dressed in nice slacks and a button down shirt. Hair was neatly combed and he was freshly shaved. A more professional look for the day. He gathered up his stuff, checked out of the hotel, and strolled out to the parking lot. He ambled over to his truck, opened the passenger's door, and tossed his duffel bag in.

It was another beautiful day in Healy, Illinois. Well, if you forgot about Dolores Gage's murder which wasn't even twenty-four hours old. Joe certainly hadn't forgotten about it and getting the details of her death was one of the many things on his agenda for the day.

However, checking his truck was first on his 'to do' list. He shut the passenger's door, moved a few steps to the front of the vehicle, and ran a hand in and under the wheel well. Crouched and peered around the tire as he felt. He repeated the procedure on all four wheel wells, but didn't find what he was looking for.

Joe scratched his head, frowned, and thought, maybe they hadn't gone for the obvious choice.

He got an old towel out of the back seat of his truck and laid it on the pavement. Laid down on the towel, on his back, and looked under his truck. Used the flashlight feature on his cell phone to illuminate the undercarriage. Swept the beam over the entire surface and just when he was about to call it quits, Bingo, there it was. A GPS tracking device.

Yup, that was how they – meaning someone from _Nicholson Dockworks_ – had tracked his movements yesterday.

Well, that wasn't going to happen today. Joe got up and moved the towel to the area where the device was located. At the back of the vehicle near the tailgate. Joe laid on the towel, on his back again, and wrestled the device off his truck. He was all smiles when he stood, a few seconds later, device in his hand.

Now, what to do with it?

Joe glanced around the parking lot and considered his options. Toss it in a trash bin? Leave in the grass? Drive to the river and throw it in? Nah, those were no fun.

He glanced at the car next to his truck and grinned. Why not?

He leaned over and slipped the magnetic device under the wheel well. There, let Nicholson – or whoever – track the wrong vehicle today.

# # # #

It was nine fifteen when Joe walked into Detective Ziegler's office. Ziegler was just sitting down at his desk, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand.

Ziegler nodded a greeting and motioned Joe to sit. Joe eased onto the chair in front of Ziegler's desk. Several file folders and crime scene photos were spread across the desk. Joe caught a glimpse of Dolores Gage's lifeless body. Not the picture a person wanted to see on such a beautiful day.

Ziegler took a careful sip of his coffee, moved a few folders aside, and set the coffee cup on his cluttered desk. He leaned back in his chair and grinned at Joe, grinned like the cat who had eaten the canary. Joe sensed something was up.

"So, how're they hanging this morning?" Ziegler said.

Joe frowned. He felt like he'd missed the punch line of a joke. "Huh?"

"Your balls." Ziegler's grin grew wider. "Still brass? Still standard Army issue?"

Joe's jaw dropped. "How'd you …"

Ziegler chuckled. "My source at the docks. Called me first thing this morning. Said you made quite an impression on Nicholson. Said Nicholson sent some thugs to teach you a lesson last night." Ziegler scanned Joe for bruises, cuts, nicks. "Looks like someone got you there on the side of your face." His chin jutted at the slight swelling on Joe's left cheek.

Joe involuntarily touched the spot. It was tender. "Yeah. Didn't duck fast enough."

Ziegler let out short bark of laughter and leaned forward. Scooped his coffee off the desk and took a sip. "How many were there? Thugs, I mean."

"Three. And definitely not the A-Team. Not even the B-Team. I'm kinda insulted Nicholson didn't send someone better."

Ziegler set his cup down and shook his head. "Yeah, well, don't get too cocky, Hardy. Especially not yet. My advice? Don't underestimate Nicholson. He's a man of many resources."

"I have no doubt about that. I found a GPS tracking device on my vehicle this morning."

"You think Nicholson had it put there?"

"Can't think of anyone else who'd want to track my movements. Plus it explains how those three thugs found me in a little hole-in-the-wall bar last night."

Ziegler nodded. "It would explain that. Is the device still on your vehicle?"

"No. Got rid of it." Joe didn't mention he'd put it on someone else's car. Would that be breaking a law? He didn't think so, but one never knew.

"You don't have a car alarm?" Ziegler asked.

"I do, but when I'm staying at a hotel, I disable it. Hate having it go off at night and disrupting people's sleep." Joe shrugged. "It's happened to me a couple of times, people bumping into the vehicle. It's a pain to get up in the middle of the night and disarm it. Now, I play it safe and disable it during my stay."

Ziegler bobbed his head like he understood. "Well, let's get down to business then, shall we? I got some info on Mister Deke, one of those guards you ran into yesterday."

Joe leaned forward. This was why he was there, to gather information. Vanessa had called him bright and early this morning – a smile in her voice – and shared her research. There had been too much to process over the phone so, Joe had told her to print everything out and he would look at it this weekend. He'd also surprised her with the news he was coming home tonight.

"I'll be home by seven," he'd said.

That had definitely put a sweetness in her voice. "Really? You promise?"

"Promise, babe."

Ziegler dug through the folders on his desk and pulled out a sheet of paper. "Here. Derrick Boxberger. Goes by Deke. He's had a couple of traffic violations. Paid his fines on times."

Ziegler handed the paper to Joe and Joe quickly scanned it, noting the salient points. Deke was former military. No surprise there. Joe had guessed as much from the man's demeanor and appearance. Joe suspected Deke's buddy, Travis, was also former military.

Deke was thirty-three years old, single, and had worked for _Nicholson Dockworks_ for approximately six years. That meant he wasn't employed at the docks when Nicholson's wife was murdered. Didn't necessarily mean he wasn't in town at the time and didn't necessarily mean he wasn't involved in the murder.

The information was sparse. Too sparse. Joe wished he had Deke's service record. That would give a better picture of the man. It would tell Joe which branch of the military Deke had been in and what his MOS (job) had been. Joe guessed it would be something in the infantry or Military Police. Of course, there were other possibilities. Joe wondered if Deke had attended any special schools such as Sniper, Airborne, or Ranger. The service record would tell Joe that along with what ribbons and medals Deke had received. Those would say a lot about his character.

Joe rubbed his chin and a frown knotted his brow. Still too many questions regarding Mister Derrick – Deke – Boxberger.

"Nothing on the other guard, Travis?" Joe asked as he handed the paper back to Ziegler.

"Nope, nothing yet. I'll let you know if we find anything."

"Good enough," Joe said and moved to the next topic of interest on his list. "What's the latest on Dolores Gage's murder?"

Ziegler settled back in his chair and took a moment to organize his thoughts. "Coroner says she was killed by an ax. The one found at the scene. It fits the wounds perfectly. She was struck ten or twelve times on the face and head while she sat in her recliner. The force of the blows was so violent it pushed her out of the recliner and onto the floor. Coroner puts the time of death between eleven a.m. and noon. It all fits with Banyan's story."

Joe replayed Banyan's interrogation in his mind. Banyan said he'd gotten a call at approximately twelve-fifteen. The caller, a man disguising his voice, said, "If I were you, I'd check on my mother."

The caller hung up before Banyan could respond. Banyan considered the call strange, certainly out of the ordinary for him. No one called him, so he thought, you know, maybe he _should_ check on his mother. He phoned her several times and got no answer. That didn't overly concern him. She had a history of drinking and passing out. That could be what happened now.

However, the call bothered him. Someone had taken the time and effort to make the call. It begged the question of _why_. Banyan decided to drive to his mother's trailer. He got there around twelve-forty-five and what he found made the hair on the back of his neck stiffen. There were drops of blood scattered on the porch and the front door was ajar. The doorknob was covered in blood.

His first thought was, his mother must've hurt herself, badly, and one of the neighbors had called him and told him to check on her. How the caller had gotten his number he wasn't sure. His mother did have his phone number so she could've given it to a neighbor at some time. She'd lived in that trailer for close to ten years.

At this point in the interrogation, Banyan had ran his hands down his face and choked back tears. He was clearly distressed and shaken. Joe had seen the sweat on Banyan's brow and he was pale as he continued his story.

He said he entered the trailer with a great deal of trepidation and called for his mother. She didn't answer and he started down the hall. There was blood on the floor and it made him uneasy because there was a lot of it. It was bright red and appeared recent. Still warm, he imagined. His mother must've fallen and cut herself. Maybe a gash on the head. Head wounds bleed a lot, everyone knew that.

He stepped around the blood and made his way to the living room. Saw his mother lying on the carpeted floor next to her recliner. A .. a bloody mess ..

Banyan couldn't remember much after that.

Ziegler filled him in. Told him he'd called 9-1-1 at one-twenty. They had a recording of Banyan saying, "She's dead. I just found her. She's dead."

Joe thought it through. He and Ziegler had arrived at the trailer by two o'clock. Not a lot of time had passed between when Dolores Gage was killed and when her body was discovered by her son.

Joe looked at Ziegler. "Did Banyan's phone records come back yet?"

"Yep. The man was right about his calls. He doesn't get many. You're the only person who's called him in the last six months, um, other than the unlisted number he received at twelve-fifteen yesterday."

"Had to be the killer," Joe said. "Probably used a TracFone. And if he's smart, he's already disposed of it."

"And the police department is already looking for it. We've got guys searching the woods near the crime scene and digging through dumpsters all over town. Officers have been sent to the local Wal-Mart and discount stores to check for any recent disposable phone purchases. We might get lucky. The bastard might have paid for the phone with a credit card. If not, maybe we can catch him on a surveillance video."

"That would be nice," Joe said. "If he planned to call Banyan after the murder that means he knew he was going to need a phone. One that couldn't be traced back to him. This killer planned ahead. The smart move would've been to purchase the phone in another town, one nearby."

"Already thought of that." Ziegler flashed a smug smile. "Called the police departments in the neighboring towns this morning. They're sending officers to the local stores to check for recent purchases of cell phones, axes, and gloves. If this bastard bought a disposable phone, an ax, or gloves within a hundred miles of here, we're going to find out."

Joe liked the sound of that. "That's good. So, no fingerprints on the ax?"

Ziegler shook his head and looked greatly disappointed. "We fingerprinted Dolores and Randy Gage and Wayne Banyan yesterday afternoon. Randy and Dolores's prints are all over the trailer as one would expect. Banyan's prints are on the floor beside his mother's body."

"Nowhere else?" Joe said, an eyebrow lifting.

"Nowhere else."

Joe drummed his fingers on his thigh. "So, Banyan's story fits the facts as we know them at the moment. He found his mother on the floor, kneeled beside her, and checked for a pulse. Didn't find one and called 9-1-1. Pretty straight forward if you ask me."

Ziegler crossed his arms over his broad chest and worked his tongue around the inside his mouth. Finally, he said, "You know, Banyan could've bought a TracFone and called himself with it. That ever occur to you?"

Joe stared at the detective for a long, hard moment. That idea _had_ occurred to Joe. He hadn't like the idea when he first thought of it and he didn't like it now. But he couldn't dismiss it as a possibility.

Joe tugged at an ear and grimaced. "That thought has occurred to me and it certainly would account for all the facts."

"It would. And just to keep you informed of all current events I have a search warrant for Banyan's house. I'm authorized to search his home, garage, and yard for cell phones, axes, and gloves. You want to tag along?"

Joe thought it over. What good would it do for him to be there? It would send the wrong message to Wayne Banyan. He'd see it as Joe working with the police – which he was – but that could upset Wayne. As it should. Banyan might think Joe didn't trust him or didn't believe in his innocence. None of which was good for a client/investigator relationship. Not at this point in the investigation. Besides, Joe had another interview he wanted to conduct. That of Randy Gage. Ziegler had briefly questioned the man yesterday when he arrived home to find his wife murdered. Worse time to question anyone. Gage had been beside himself with grief.

"I think it's best if I'm not there," Joe told Ziegler. "Banyan might not understand my reasons for working with the police. You know, him being my client and all. You'll let me know if you find anything though, like say, a pair of bloody gloves."

Ziegler pushed out of his chair, signaling their time together was over. "I'll let you know, Hardy. If you're not coming with me, where you off to?"

"Think I'll have another crack at Randy Gage. See if he can answer some questions today. He was pretty shook up yesterday when you questioned him."

Ziegler grabbed his jacket off a hook on the wall. "You'll let me know what he says?"

"Of course," Joe said and meant it.

# # # #

Joe sat in his truck in the police department's parking lot. He watched Ziegler leave with a couple of uniforms. Joe would stop by Wayne's later today and get the scoop on what happened. Joe would also inform Wayne that he would be out of town for the next day or two. Had to get more clothes and supplies. Joe would be back on Sunday with his brother Frank.

Right now though, Joe had other business to take care of. He lifted his phone and called Randy Gage's sister. Randy was staying with her until his trailer was cleared by the police. A minute later Joe hung up. Randy had agreed to an interview in an hour and a half. The man sounded like the bottom of his world had fallen out. Which, of course, it had.

Joe stared out the windshield. He had plenty of time to check out something else. Something that may not be important, but then again, it might. Sometimes, it was the little details that made all the difference.

Joe hated to admit it, but Wayne was still a suspect in his mind. The thought did not rest easily there. Rather, it lurked, a hulking black figure that cast doubt on every aspect of the case. Joe would like to put his suspicion to rest. Get rid of it completely.

Joe thought back to what Wayne had told him about Bulka being poisoned. Joe hadn't questioned the story. He'd taken it at face value. It was time Joe started checking what Wayne said.

Joe used his phone to find the address of animal clinics in Healy. Only one in town, _Healy Animal Clinic and Hospital_. Joe's phone displayed the most direct route to get there. He started his truck and followed it.

Joe walked into the _Healy Animal Clinic and Hospital_ twenty minutes later. It was a large, modern building with an inviting waiting area. Owners sat in plastic chairs along the walls and held tight to dogs on leashes. Cat owners opted to sit with their cats in carriers on their laps. Random meows and the occasional bark kept the atmosphere charged, but friendly.

Joe walked up to the counter and greeted one of the receptionist. "Good morning, miss. I'm Investigator Hardy with the state of Illinois." He held up his PI badge. It was similar to a Police Badge and Joe figured that was an added benefit. "My client, Wayne Banyan, has hired me to do an investigation."

Joe paused to let all of that sink in. The young, brunette with pretty brown eyes glanced at Joe's badge and back at him. "Wayne Banyan?"

"Yes, ma'am," Joe said. "He owns a dog, a German Shepard. Her name is Bulka. She was poisoned about a month ago."

"Oh!" The young woman's eyes widened and a hand flew to her mouth. "Yes, Bulka! I remember that day. Poor thing, she almost didn't make it. We were all so worried about her. You're investigating her poisoning?"

Joe kept his expression neutral and professional. "I'm sorry, miss. I'm not at liberty to discuss the case I'm working. I'm just trying to get a few facts about the poisoning, like date and time of the incident. Could you give me that information?"

The young woman looked at the other receptionist for guidance.

The other woman was older and heavyset. She came over, looked at Joe, and said, "Can I see that badge again?"

Joe held it up and the woman studied it for a moment. Finally, she nodded and said, "Did you want to talk to the doctor who saw the dog?"

"No ma'am, that's not necessary. I'm just interested in the date and time of the incident."

"Well, in that case, I think we can give you the information. You said Mr. Banyan hired you?"

"Yes, ma'am. You can call him if you'd like."

The woman gave the suggestion serious consideration before saying, "I'll give him a call later to let him know you were here." She turned to the young woman and said, "Sue, you can give Investigator Hardy that information, but nothing else."

Joe was confident the heavyset woman _would_ call Wayne later and tell him about Joe's visit. Fine by Joe, he liked the woman. She was tough and thorough. Didn't look like much, if anything, got past her.

Sue, the young woman, went to the filing cabinet and found Bulka's file. While she skimmed through it Joe thought about his visit. Coming to the clinic had not been a waste of time. Far from it. This visit had propelled Joe's thoughts in a new direction. He might come back and talk to the doctor who had seen Bulka. How long did it take for poison to affect a dog? One hour? Two?

Sue closed the filing cabinet and walked back to the counter.

"Got it," she said and gave Joe the date and time.

He wrote the information in his notepad. It was exactly what Wayne had told him.

Joe pocketed his notepad and said, "Thank you, miss. You've been very helpful."

"No problem," Sue said. "You know, this shouldn't really surprise me. I mean that Mr. Banyan hired someone to investigate the poisoning. He loves his dog like no body I've ever seen. And she loves him real back. You know, I think Mr. Banyan is really wonderful for doing this, for hiring you. Not many people would do that for their pet. I hope you find whoever poisoned that sweet dog." There was a fierceness in the last sentence.

Joe smiled. He had never actually said he was investigating the poisoning.

"I'm working on it. Thank you again." That was true. When Joe found out who killed Dan Sagget and Dolores Gage, then he would also know who had poisoned Bulka.

Joe left the office, got in his truck, and thought things over. The killer had knowledge of Wayne's work schedule and life. He knew Wayne had a dog and the dog was in the yard at night. The killer had taken steps to get the dog out of the way. That spoke of premeditation.

Joe replayed the facts of Dan Sagget's murder in his mind. Ziegler had let Joe read Dan Sagget's file yesterday while they waited to interrogate Wayne. Sagget had been killed at around five-thirty p.m. It appeared he had come home from work at four-thirty as usual, changed his clothes, turned on the TV, and opened a beer. The beer can was full and sitting on an end table. Looked like Dan never got a chance to take a drink before he was killed.

Apparently, the killer knocked on Dan's door and Dan let him in. That indicated he knew the person and did not fear the person. There were no signs of a struggle in the house. No overturned furniture. Ziegler had shared his theory of how the murder went down. The killer entered the house and Dan closed the door. The two men stood there for a second talking. Perhaps Dan offered the killer a drink and the killer accepted. Dan turned to walk to the kitchen and the killer struck. Hit Dan in the back of the head with the ax. Dan never saw the attack coming. Never had a chance to defend himself. The first blow incapacitated him. He fell to the floor and the killer bludgeoned him to death.

Rage, Joe thought. Tons of rage. Why? And who?

If not Wayne, then who?

Nicholson? Hard to say. The man was capable of murder – or having people murdered.

What about Jason Becker, Connie's old boyfriend? He had shown great sorrow for Wayne. He'd even tried to help Wayne back when he was a kid. Unfortunately, Jason had failed, or the school counselor had failed. Did that failure haunt Jason now?

Could Jason be trying to right a past wrong?

Joe shook his head. He didn't like Jason for the murder. The man had a wife and kids. A great family. Did he have the time, or the burning desire, to kill two people? Two people he'd known briefly almost twenty years ago? Joe didn't think so. Not unless there was a lot more to what happened back then, something Jason hadn't told Joe.

Joe blew out a frustrated breath and checked the clock on the dashboard. Time to get going. He had to interview Randy Gage. Maybe Randy could shed some light on the past or on who would want to kill Dan Sagget and Dolores Gage.

* * *

 _A/N: Thank you dear readers for the reviews, favorites, and follows. Those always warm my heart. Sorry for the delay in posting._


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Joe pulled up to the home of Randy Gage's sister. She lived in a doublewide trailer with a nice porch. Definitely a step up in the world from Randy and Dolores Gage's trailer. Joe climbed the porch steps and knocked on the door. A haggard looking woman in her early sixties opened the door.

Joe's PI badge was around his neck, making him look official. "Good morning, ma'am. I'm Investigator Hardy. I'm here to question Randy Gage."

"Yeah, he's expecting you." She opened the door wider and Joe stepped inside. "Mind you, Randy ain't doing so good. He's still torn up 'bout this whole thing." She eyed Joe with mild contempt. "You all can't wait a few days with the questions? The man hasn't had time to grieve."

It was small rebuke and Joe took it in stride. "I know, ma'am, and I'm sorry to trouble you and your brother at a time like this. But I'm sure he understands that the quicker the police ask their questions and get answers, the quicker they can find out who killed his wife."

The woman wasn't quite ready to let go of her righteous outrage. "You all haven't found Dan Sagget's killer and that happened over a month ago. What makes you think you can find Dolores's killer?"

She was a little off on the timeline, but Joe didn't bother correcting her. Instead, he said, "You don't think the same person killed both of them?"

The woman huffed and thrust her shoulders up and down in an exaggerated shrug that caused her arms to flop at her sides. "What the hell do I know? Ain't my job to figure out who did what to whom."

Joe frowned. He wasn't quite sure what to make of this woman. Best to change the subject altogether. "I'm sorry, I didn't get your name, ma'am."

That set her back a nanosecond. "Brenda. Brenda Vance." The righteous tone was still there though.

Joe maintained his professional calm. "Is Mr. Gage ready to meet with me, Ms. Vance?"

"Yeah, he's in the kitchen. I made him a cup of coffee. You want some coffee?" She looked up at Joe with innocent eyes and he got the impression she was trying to make amends. The coffee was a peace offering.

Joe took it. "Coffee would be nice. Thank you." He followed her down a hall and into the kitchen.

"You want cream in it?" Brenda asked over her shoulder.

"Yes, please."

Randy Gage sat at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug. He didn't move, didn't flinch, didn't make any outward sign he had noticed Joe and Ms. Vance's entrance. Randy sat perfectly still and stared into space.

Joe stepped to the table and leaned slightly toward the man. "Mr. Gage?"

Slowly, as if awakening from a deep sleep, the man turned his head and tilted it ever-so slightly. He looked up at Joe. There was no curiosity, no surprise, no expression at all on Gage's face. His body was there, but his mind was lost to emotions. Joe felt that Gage had gone past simple grief and into utter despair.

Joe pulled out a chair and sat across from Gage. "Mr. Gage, I'm Investigator Hardy. We met briefly yesterday."

"He remembers," Brenda said, stepping up to the table. She placed a steaming cup of coffee in front of Joe and turned to her brother. "Randy, Mr. Hardy's here to ask you a few questions about Dolores. He – the police – want to find out who did that to Dolores. You want that, too, don't you?"

Joe figured Brenda to be five years older than Randy. As children, she may have, at times, been responsible for Randy's care. Perhaps she watched him while their parents worked. Now, in his hour of need, Brenda reverted to her childhood role. She was once again, the older sister caring for her baby brother.

Joe withdrew his notepad and pen and laid them on the table.

"Randy, did you hear me?" Brenda's voice was a little louder, a little more demanding.

It seemed to do the trick and Randy came out of his funk. He blinked and his eyes darted from Joe to Brenda. "I-I heard you, Brenda. You don't need to shout."

Brenda flopped into a chair and reached for a half empty coffee mug. "I wasn't shouting. You acted like you hadn't heard me." Her tone indicated she was defensive and peeved and had every right to be.

"If I may," Joe said, breaking up the stare down between brother and sister, "I have a few questions, Mr. Gage."

Randy's bloodshot eyes moved to Joe. Randy's hair was a rumpled mess, like he'd run his hands through it over and over.

"I-I don't know what I can tell you." His head drooped and he looked as if he might sob.

Joe didn't want that. He knew this was hard for the man, but questions had to be asked. "I'm very sorry for your loss, Mr. Gage and I know this isn't the best time for questions, so I'll be as quick as possible."

Randy made a motion with his hand as if to say, _let's get on with it_.

"Okay," Joe said, "can you think of anyone who would want to harm your wife?"

One of Randy's hands curled into a fist and he glowered at Joe. "That's all I been thinking about all night long!" He ran an angry hand through his hair. "I .. it just don't make sense. Dorie didn't have no enemies." He looked at his sister for confirmation. "No one hated, Dorie, did they?"

Brenda avoided her brother's glare and eyed her coffee mug. "Well, um, I don't know, Randy."

"What? What are you saying, Brenda?" Randy looked like a raging bull, ready to charge.

Joe's gaze flitted between the siblings.

"Nothing," Brenda railed. "Just forget it." She lifted her mug and took a sip. Joe suspected the coffee was stone cold, but it was a good diversion.

"No, I'm not going to forget it," Randy growled. "If you got something to say, then say it."

"If there's something you know, Ms. Vance, I'd like to hear it." Joe's voice was the calm in a sudden storm.

"I'd like to hear it, too," Randy said. He was now fully alert. It was obvious his sister's words had surprised and provoked him.

Brenda set her mug down and looked at Randy. "You know there's at least one person who didn't like Dorie. Her own son, for God's sakes. He never came around. Not even when Dorie invited him. Think of all the Christmases and other holidays when he stood ya'all up. It's like he spit in her face. Never came here once. Half the time he didn't even bother to answer his phone. Yeah, she told me all about it." Brenda lifted her chin and threw her brother a defiant look. _There, tell me it didn't happen the way I said_.

"Is that true, Mr. Gage." Joe wasn't keen to go down this path, but he'd be remiss if he didn't pursue it.

Randy looked as if he might sob. The wind had gone out of his sails.

"Mr. Gage," Joe prompted.

"Yeah, it happened just like my sister said." Randy lifted his head and shot his sister a hard look. "Wayne avoided his mom. Hated her guts. But .. but .."

"But what?" Joe said. "If there's something else, I need to know."

"But it, it's just that I figured it would be Dan who would want to kill Dorie. He hated her, too, and he had enough anger for ten men."

"Dan Sagget?" Joe wanted to be sure.

"Yeah, Dan Sagget. He and Dorie didn't split on the best of terms, you know. I, well, I broke 'em up. Dorie and I got together while she and Dan were still married. I figured Dan had hard feelings about that. There've been times I thought he might come after me, but then he got whacked and I breathed easier. Until this. God, who'd want to kill Dorie?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out," Joe said. "Let me ask the question in a slightly different way. Who would want to kill both Dan Sagget and your wife? Can you think of anyone, Mr. Gage?"

When her brother didn't response, Brenda cut in, "If you ask me, her son, Wayne Banyan."

Joe turned to her. "Why do you suspect Mr. Banyan?"

Brenda glanced at her brother and then said, "Dorie and I used to talk. She'd come over here or I'd go to her place and we'd have coffee. We'd sit and talk. She told me she regretted some of the things she did when she was younger. One of those things was marrying Dan. She said he was hard on Wayne. Harder than he should've been."

A part of Joe was pleased to hear of Dolores Gage's regret. Apparently, there had been a piece of humanity in her after all. "I've heard he abused Wayne. Is that what you mean, Ms. Vance?"

Brenda nodded as she stared at her mug.

Joe looked at Randy Gage. "Can you think of anyone else who might have wanted to harm both Dan and your wife? Someone from their past, someone who knew them when they were married."

Randy scrubbed a hand over his unshaven chin. "God, that's been so long ago. Dorie got along with people, Dan never did. Probably lots of people who wanted to kill Dan. I-I can't think of anyone who'd want," his lower lip quivered, "who'd want to kill Dorie."

Joe angled his head and looked at Brenda. "How about you, Ms. Vance? Can you think of anyone?"

Brenda shook her head woefully. "I can't think of anyone at the moment."

"One last question," Joe said. "How about Kyle Nicholson. Did either of you ever hear Dan or Dolores talk about him? Was there ever any mention of trouble between Dan and Kyle?"

Randy wagged a finger at Joe. "Yeah, Kyle Nicholson. Dan worked for him back when Dorie and me started dating. Dorie used to say she couldn't believe Dan still had a job. She said Dan was always doing something to piss Kyle off. According to Dorie, Dan always came home fuming, saying Kyle was going to go too far one day."

Joe opened his notepad, jotted a few notes in it, and then looked at Randy. "Any idea what Dan meant by, Kyle Nicholson was going to go too far one day?"

Randy's bushy brows rose. "What? You mean like kill somebody?"

"That or something else."

"Hell, I don't know. Kyle Nicholson's got a reputation in this town. He's someone you don't mess with. One of the reasons I never took a job at the docks."

"Where do you work, Mr. Gage?"

"Wiggins Grocery Store. Been there twenty years. Was thinking of retiring soon. Me and Dorie had-had plans .." Randy's eyes went soft and watery. He wiped the corner of his eye with the back of his hand.

Joe figured he'd gotten all the information he was going to get and closed his notepad. "That's all for today, folks. As the investigation progresses there may be more questions." Joe stood, withdrew a card from a pocket, and handed it to Brenda. "Here's my card in case you think of anything else. I'm interested in the past. Particularly, in someone who might have had a grudge against Dan Sagget ten or twenty years ago. That grudge might have included Dolores merely because she was married to Dan."

Brenda took the card and read it. "You're from River Heights?"

"I am, but I've been staying, here, in town. If you think of anything that might be relevant to the case, don't hesitate to call me."

Randy and Brenda nodded.

"Thank you both," Joe said and left. His coffee sat untouched on the table.

Outside, he climbed into his truck and drove away. He went half a mile, saw a pullout, and wheeled into it. Killed his engine and texted Detective Ziegler.

 _Interview with Randy Gage and Brenda Vance (his sister) complete. Brenda pegged Banyan as a possible suspect in Dolores Gage's murder due to his dislike of his mother._

 _Hardy_

Joe set his phone in the console and was ready to start his truck when the phone rang. He grabbed it and answered. "Hardy, here."

It was Ziegler. "Hey, just finished the search at Banyan's. Nothing there. No big surprise. So, Brenda Vance likes Banyan for the murder?"

Joe sighed. "She gave his name as a possibility. According to her, Dolores Gage made several attempts to reconcile with her son. He rejected every one. Didn't even have the decency to return his mother's calls."

"The man can hold a grudge, can't he?" Ziegler chuckled softly. "A person holds emotions in that long, they're bound to erupt sooner or later. All that anger and rage has to come out eventually and when it does, it usually comes out in a very violent way, if you catch my drift."

"I get what you're saying, but I don't believe Banyan committed these murders."

That caught Ziegler by surprise. "What? What's made you change your mind?"

"I did some checking this morning. Did you know that Banyan has a dog?"

"As of an hour ago, yes. Good looking German Shepard. Banyan said she was a Military Working Dog."

"Did he tell you she was poisoned the night before the bloody gloves were tossed into his backyard?"

"Nope, he never mentioned a poisoning. What's going on, Hardy?"

Joe sensed Ziegler frowning and wondering and not liking Joe's sudden change of heart. Yesterday Joe had been willing to keep Banyan on the suspect list. Today, not so much. Joe realized Ziegler needed a good explanation, something that warranted this sudden change.

"The way I see it," Joe said, "the killer wanted the dog out of the way before he planted the gloves so, he poisoned her. Threw some tainted meat over the fence intending to either kill her or make her real sick. The dog's lucky to be alive. I spoke to the receptionist at the _Animal Hospital_ this morning. She said it was touch and go for the dog and that Banyan was torn to pieces. Look, Banyan and I worked with that dog in Afghanistan. There's no way Banyan would hurt that dog or plant damning evidence in his own backyard."

There was a long pause and then Ziegler said, "So, you're willing to write Banyan off as a suspect? Is that what you're saying?"

"Yeah, that's what I'm saying." Joe scratched his cheek and worked his jaw. "Listen, I've got a theory about these murders. I think they have something to do with the past. This killer's rage has been building for a long time. I think something happened back when Dan Sagget and Dolores Gage were married. My guess would be that Sagget pissed somebody off. From what I've heard he was pretty good at that. Maybe he screwed around with someone's wife. Maybe he helped Nicholson cover up a murder. Hell, I don't know what he did, but whatever it was it made someone mad and they've carried a grudge for years. Maybe they've thought about killing Sagget over the years, but never had the nerve to do it. Something might've changed recently for the killer and he decided to act. Maybe he found out he has terminal cancer and only six months to live. I don't know. Something provoked the killer to act now."

"Okay," Ziegler said slowly and calmly. "And how does Dolores Gage's murder work into this scenario?"

"Best I can figure is she knew about what happened back then. And even if she didn't know, the killer couldn't count on that. He had to assume she knew and that meant he had to kill her."

"She didn't mention anything to me," Ziegler said. "She mention anything to you about old grudges?"

"No," Joe said with a good degree of chagrin. "I think her memory was shot. Given how much she drank it's a wonder she could remember anything. But, like I said, the killer couldn't trust to a faulty memory to keep him safe. As long as Dolores was alive she was a threat."

"Well, it's a helluva theory, Hardy. Not sure I buy it, but it's a helluva a theory."

"Yeah, well, at least you were willing to hear me out."

# # # #

Helluva a theory, Joe thought as he drove to Wayne's house. Joe wasn't sure he had convinced himself of the theory.

Only thing Joe was sure of was, Wayne would never hurt Bulka. The receptionist at the _Animal Hospital_ had confirmed that and Joe's history with Wayne confirmed it.

Another thing, Wayne would never plant the bloody gloves in his yard. That was just plain dumb and Wayne wasn't dumb.

Plus, Wayne had received a call telling him to check on his mother. His phone records confirmed it. Now, whether he had called himself with an untraceable phone remained to be seen. But if he didn't put the bloody gloves in his backyard then he probably didn't buy an untraceable phone to call himself.

Joe slowed his vehicle and turned onto Wayne's street. So, who wanted Dan Sagget and Dolores Gage dead? That was the question. Joe pulled into Wayne's driveway and killed the engine.

Wayne appeared at the front door. Bulka poked her head past his thigh, saw Joe, and barked a greeting. Wayne gave her the OK and she charged toward Joe as he climbed out of his truck. Joe was soon engulfed in a flurry of barks and licks.

"Okay, girl. Okay! Calm down." Joe laughed at the dog. Her happiness was contagious. It brightened his mood and made him smile. "C'mon, girl. I have to talk to Wayne."

Wayne met them in the tiny front yard.

Joe said, "Heard the police were here with a search warrant."

Wayne nodded. "Yeah, looking for cell phones, axes, and gloves."

"Ziegler told me they didn't find anything."

"I'm not the killer," Wayne stated firmly. "And I don't like the way that detective – Ziegler – looks at me. Like he's already convicted me."

"Yeah, he's a hard one." Joe studied Wayne's face. Bags under red rimmed eyes told the story. He hadn't slept much and he'd cried some.

Joe laid a hand on Wayne's shoulder. "How you holding up?"

"You mean .. about my mom?"

Joe's hand dropped to his side. "Yeah, the death of a parent is stressful even when you didn't care much for the parent."

Wayne's looked at a tree in the neighbor's yard. His eyes were moist. "Yeah, I'm finding that out. Um, you want some water or something?"

"Yeah, that would be nice."

They went inside, got some water, and sat at the old Formica table.

Joe drank half his water and said, "So, honestly, how you holding up? Is there anything I can do?"

Wayne shook his head. "No, thanks for the offer. The family's been calling me non-stop and it's driving me a little crazy. First my sister called, crying and carrying on. What are we going to do, Wayne? Who's making funeral arrangements? Hell, I don't know, I told her. Then my Uncle Mike called. That's my mom's brother. He's all crying and wanting to know about funeral arrangements. He asked if I'd talked to Randy yet. No, I told him, but I'd let him know when I did."

Wayne shook his head again. "Geez, didn't know it was my job to sort all this funeral stuff out for everybody. Isn't it Randy's job to make the funeral arrangements?"

"I would think so," Joe agreed. "He's her husband. By the way, I interviewed him this morning. The man's a mess. He'll probably need help with the arrangements. He's staying with his sister. She looks like she's got it together. If I were you, I'd give her a call."

"Yeah?" Wayne looked like he'd licked a lemon.

Joe held out his hands. "Just a suggestion. But if you want information for your sister and uncle, Brenda's the one to call."

"Fine." Wayne spat out the word.

Joe finished his water and told Wayne he was heading out to River Heights. "I'll be gone tonight and tomorrow. I have to get more clothes and things. I'll be back by Sunday afternoon. My brother's coming back with me."

"Bringing in reinforcements?" Wayne said and both men stood.

Joe smiled. "Something like that."

* * *

 _A/N: Thank you kindly for the reviews on the last chapter. Those always brighten my day. To the guest reviewer who mentioned a mis-stated word: I reread the chapter several times and didn't find anything I think I mis-stated. Not saying I didn't because I make all kinds of mistakes and typos! But whatever you are referring to seems to have gotten past me._


	15. Chapter 15

_Special note: Sitrep means 'situation report.'_

 _Chapter 15_

The lights were low and the office quiet. Stars twinkled in the dark sky beyond the window. He sat at his desk, booted feet crossed at the ankles and resting on the smooth mahogany desk top. A glass of whiskey was settled nicely in his right hand.

A casual observer might think he was relaxed. Maybe enjoying a quiet evening in his office on the docks before heading home for the night. A casual observer would be wrong. He wasn't quite as relaxed as he appeared. Relaxation never came easy to him and when he was troubled, his thoughts often turned inward, to his father.

His daddy – God rest his soul – always said a man had to prove himself. Had to get out there and face the world. Had to take what it gave him and not complain. Never did any good to complain, daddy said.

His daddy had been a hard man. Uncompromising to the day he died. Deke couldn't say he really missed the man. But the man had given Deke something important, something worth having – determination. Yeah, and Deke had it in spades. Determination had gotten him through more scrapes, more tough spots, more _will I live or will I die_ moments then he could remember. When he had a chance to sit back and kick his feet up, like now, he loved to remember those moments. Sadly, he realized that was all he had, those heart stopping memories. Nothing more personal. No family left now that his daddy was gone.

He lifted the glass of whiskey and threw some down his throat. Felt it burn all the way to his stomach. The burn was good and satisfying in a deep seated way. And God knew, he needed some satisfaction tonight. The day had been wholly unsatisfactory. That Investigator, Hardy, had apparently found the tracking device. Deke had tracked the wrong vehicle all day and into the early evening before he got wise to the ruse. Stupid mistake on Deke's part. A rookie mistake and Deke wasn't a rookie.

Deke was better than that. All he could figure was, he was getting soft working this civilian job. The money was good, but the job didn't give him the adrenaline thrill he craved. He wanted that amped up, gut clenching thrill he'd felt in combat. Damn, he missed that. There was nothing like the spine tingling rush of going into battle. Deke didn't think there was anything that could ever replicate that feeling.

Well, until now. Deke grinned and sipped more of the whiskey. That Investigator, Hardy, gave him hope. Hardy looked like he could be a worthy adversary. The way Hardy had stood up to Nicholson was novel and refreshing. Deke hadn't seen anyone do that before. Most sons-of-bitches came in here begging and groveling before Nicholson even opened his mouth. Pathetic. They made Deke want to puke.

Finally, someone with a backbone.

Deke's grin grew and one of his feet twitched on the desk top to an imaginary beat. Yeah, this was good. Somebody worth his time. Somebody worth his experience. Hardy had a lot of the same experiences as Deke had. Hardy had been an MP and had some combat time. That was good. Hardy was going to need that experience.

Deke knocked back the last of the whiskey and placed the glass on the floor beside his chair. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Folded his hands on his lap and got comfortable.

Deke thought it over. Hardy was sniffing around, chasing a scent that had led him to Nicholson. Nothing new in that. In this town, unsolved murders often led to Nicholson's door. Usually with good reason, Deke thought. He, himself, knew where a few bodies were buried. That knowledge made him extra cautious around Nicholson. Those who knew too much had an uncanny way of disappearing.

Deke wasn't about to disappear. Not by Nicholson's hand, that was for damn sure. No, when Deke disappeared, it would be of his own volition. He wouldn't tell anyone in advance either. He'd just fade into the night like a ghost, never to be seen again.

Deke chuckled under his breath. That was exactly what he'd do when the time came. But now, he had to meet Nicholson and tell him about the blunder. The fuck up with the tracking device. Nicholson wasn't going to be happy to hear about it and Deke couldn't blame the man.

Deke slid his feet off the desk and eased out of his chair. A stack of papers lay on the corner of his desk. A culmination of his hard work over the last few hours. He couldn't show up at Nicholson's empty handed. That would just invite a whole lotta trouble, not to mention, Nicholson's wrath.

Deke shrugged on a jacket and scooped the papers off the desk. The papers contained all the information Deke had dug up on Hardy. Nicholson would be pleased to hear what Deke had uncovered.

Deke switched off the light and left the office. Outside, he took a moment to look up at the night sky, at the stars twinkling above. Damn, if they weren't pretty. Made a man glad he was alive.

# # # #

Joe made one stop for gas and then drove straight through to River Heights. Three hours of driving and only the radio to keep him company. He started with a station featuring music from the 60s, 70s, and 80s. He rocked out to those for a long while before moving to a Country and Western station. When C&W lost its thrill, he switched to disco music. A desperate move, but disco music _was_ upbeat.

 _KC and the Sunshine Band_ carried him into River Heights proclaiming, _That's the way uh, huh, uh huh, I like it_.

At six-fifteen Joe pulled into the alley behind the office building and parked his truck. He was home at last and it felt good. Words couldn't describe the feeling.

Joe hauled his weary body out of the truck and stretched. He rolled his shoulders and worked the kinks out of his neck while looking around. The alley – a long narrow strip of pavement and parking spots – was dimly lit by low-wattage exterior lights. Offices were located on the ground floors of the buildings bordering the alley. Apartments were on the second floor. Joe liked living and working in the same building. No morning rush to get to an office, you were already there.

Joe grabbed his duffel bag off the back seat, slammed the truck doors shut, pushed the lock button on his key fob and turned. He headed for a set of metal stairs that led to the apartment above the _Farmer's Insurance Agency_. The insurance agency was next door to the _Endeavor Detective Agency_. Joe had thought about popping into his office, but why? Vanessa was foremost on his mind. Actually, she was the only thing on his mind and he didn't want to delay one more second in seeing her.

So up he went, taking the steps two at a time. He got to the landing and knocked on the door. Vanessa opened it and smiled at him. It was like the sun peeking out on a cloudy day. Her smile never failed to warm his heart.

"You're home," she said and let him in.

He walked inside and dropped his duffel on the floor. She closed the door and looked at him with those pale blue eyes of hers. Those eyes made him think of home, of Bayport, New York. Her eyes were the pale, gray-blue of a winter sky on Barmet Bay. He'd proposed to her on a winter's day in Bayport and her eyes were a constant reminder of that fact.

Her hair fell in a shining wave over her shoulders. Damn, she was gorgeous. She wore a lavender shirt and jeans and was barefooted. She rarely wore shoes in the apartment. Her feet were always hot she claimed. _Hot feet, warm heart, she often joked_.

She was like a magnet, pulling him to her. He moved forward, reached a hand up, placed it at the nape of her neck, and drew her closer. He kissed her long and hard in a scorching kiss that was rough and raw .. like him.

He wanted to take her to bed. Show her how much he loved and cherished her.

She broke the kiss and drew back. "I made dinner. Are you hungry?"

"Yeah, but dinner can wait." To hell with the food, although, he could smell it, something in the oven, and it smelled heavenly. But food could wait. He wanted her more. So much more.

He walked her backwards to the bedroom, kissing her all the way. Somehow, he managed to unbutton her shirt in that short distance. Clearly a man of many talents.

He was still kissing her, one hand on her back and one on the swell of her hips when they entered the bedroom. He guided her to the bed and she collapsed onto the bedspread. Her shirt slid open, revealing a lacy bra. She looked up at him, eyes dark with desire and cheeks a rosy pink.

He lowered himself on top of her and took a second to study her face, his eyes going soft and tender. He gently brushed a strand of long blonde hair off her forehead.

"I love you," he said, his voice thick with emotion.

"I love you, too."

Her arms went around him as his lips met hers.

# # # #

Like every room in the mansion, Nicholson's den was a generous size. A corner of Deke's mouth lifted in distaste. Nicholson lived lavishly, maybe a little too lavishly. Why waste money on things you never used? An array of antique guns adorned the walls. An old Civil War musket hung over the glowing fireplace. That had to cost a pretty penny.

Deke admired the weaponry, but it was just for show. Its only purpose was to impress a visitor which it sort of did.

Nicholson sat at his desk, scanning the papers Deke had handed him. Deke stood in front of the desk, feeling like he'd stepped back in time, like he'd returned to the Marine Corps. How many times had he stood in front of the commander's desk at parade rest, awaiting orders? Here he was in civilian life doing the exact same thing. Funny how his life had changed, but hadn't really changed at all. He was still taking orders from someone.

Nicholson shoved the papers aside and looked up at Deke. "What's your thoughts on Hardy? Do I need to be worried about him?"

Deke straightened. "Worried about him? Too soon to tell. He's working with that police detective – Ziegler."

"Ziegler," Nicholson hissed. "He's a thorn in my side. You're keeping an eye on him, too, aren't you?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. As to Hardy, what do you suggest? How should we deal with him?"

"Keep an eye on him. If he comes sniffing around the docks again we'll," Deke cleared his throat, "we'll take more substantial measures."

"I trust you, and your men, to use your own judgment and take whatever measures you deem appropriate."

A knowing look passed between the men.

"Yes sir. We won't let Hardy get too close. It appears he's out of town tonight. My guess is he went back to River Heights. Probably had to get more clothes. I expect him to show up on Monday and we'll start tracking him again. If he comes anywhere near the docks, I'll know it." Secretly, Deke wanted Hardy to do just that. _Come on down to the docks. Make my day._

"Good," Nicholson said. "That's all for tonight. You can find your way out?"

"Yes sir. Good-night, sir." Deke turned and left. Wandered his way through the large house. He couldn't call it a home. It was too impersonal for that word.

# # # #

Vanessa ladled piping hot chicken casserole onto two plates. This was one of Joe's favorite cold weather meals. Tender chunks of chicken paired with wild rice and broccoli in a cheesy sauce. She had made a salad to go with it, but suspected only she would be eating the salad.

Joe sat at the table skimming the papers she had printed out yesterday. Those papers contained all the information she had gathered on Kyle Nicholson.

She set a plate and fork in front of Joe and said, "Find anything interesting?"

Joe glanced up at her. "Yeah, there's a lot here. You were very thorough. It's going to take me some time to go through all of this. One thing I noticed, Nicholson owns several properties."

Vanessa placed a bowl of salad on the table and took a seat. "Nicholson owns five different properties. One is the docks. It's the largest at over thirty acres. Then there's the property where his house is. Did you see the Google Maps picture?" Joe nodded and Vanessa continued, "Looks like he lives in a mansion and that might be a gatehouse not far from the _big_ house. There are other buildings, too. Those might be storage buildings. A man like Nicholson probably has lots of toys and needs a place to store them."

"Boats and cars would be my guess," Joe said and moved his plate of food closer. "This smells delicious, babe. Thanks for making dinner."

Vanessa smiled. She knew the way to Joe's heart was partly through his stomach. "You're welcome. You know I love cooking for you. Oh, and Nicholson's three other properties are outside the city limits. I found that strange and none of them appear to be developed. Only one has a structure on it. A white building."

That particular property had caught Joe's attention, too. Located two miles outside the city of Healy and situated on the river. A boat dock could be seen from the Google Maps image.

Joe scooped a forkful of chicken casserole into his mouth and thumbed through the papers on the table, looking for the Google Maps image. He found it and eyed it intently. What in the world did Nicholson keep in that white building? Was that a propane tank next to the building? If so, that meant heat was required for whatever was kept inside.

Vanessa noticed the frown wrinkling Joe's brow. "Something wrong?" she asked.

"Not sure," Joe said slowly. "Just wondering about that white building."

# # # #

Deke drove to the little bar and grill he liked to frequent on Friday nights. It was in the town of Ames, twenty miles from Healy. The bar and grill was a perfect place to conduct business and make phone calls that he didn't want anyone to know about. Specifically Nicholson.

Deke walked in and Rachel, one of the waitresses, sashayed her way over. She greeted him with a sassy smile and a gleam in her eye.

"Hi there, Deke. Haven't seen you in weeks. Been busy?"

Rachel was a raven haired beauty with flashing black eyes. She'd found her way into Deke's bed on more than one occasion.

He returned the smile. "Always busy on the docks, Rayche."

Uh, huh." Rachel's gaze roamed over the good looking man standing before her. "Still working for Nicholson?" A manicured eyebrow rose.

"Still there," he confirmed. "I'll sit at the bar."

"Sure. Want your usual? Steak and beer?"

"Yep."

They walked to the bar, Rachel in the lead and Deke following, watching her hips. Damn nice hips.

He seated himself at the bar and Rachel said, "'I've been watching the news. Heard there's been two murders in Healy. One of the victims worked at the docks, same as you. You worried?"

Deke rested an arm on the bar and grinned. "Worried? Me? C'mon."

The bartender appeared and Deke ordered a beer and a steak dinner.

After the bartender left, Rachel laid a hand on Deke's arm. Her touch was intimate and conveyed a good degree of affection. "I worry about you Deke. God knows I shouldn't, but I do. Promise me you'll watch your back. I've heard stories about Nicholson. You can't trust him."

"You're not telling me anything I don't already know. But thanks for the concern." The bartender set a tall, cold glass of beer on the counter and Deke nodded his thanks. His head rotated back to Rachel and he gave her a coy smile. "You can come to my place tonight. Show me how worried you are."

Rachel's dark eyes narrowed and she shook her head. "Not your best line, Deke. I'd like to think I'm more to you than that."

He held up hand. "You are and I'm duly chastised. You deserve better than that, Raych. Forgive me?" He ran a finger down her cheek and saw the barest hint of a smile curl the corner of her lips.

"I have to get back to work. Talk to you later." Rachel moved away and headed to a table to wait on customers.

Deke watched her go. Watched her hips move in that sensual way he liked so well. Yeah, those hips got to him every time. But he had things to take care of, the whole reason he was there. He tore his attention away from Rachel's hips and pulled out his phone. Punched in a number and waited.

The call was answered after one ring. "Yo."

"What's the sitrep?" Deke said.

"Our boy showed up just like you predicted. I'm parked in an alley outside his office. He didn't go to the office though. He went upstairs to an apartment next to his office."

"Got any idea who lives there?" Deke sipped his beer and waited.

"Yeah. That apartment is above a _Farmers Insurance Agency_. I did a Google search. The agency is owned and operated by Muriel and Henry Boggs. They only have one employee, a Vanessa Bender. I think Miss Bender lives in the apartment. When our boy knocked on the door, a tall blonde answered and she looked happy to see him. From the quick look I got, I'd say she matches the picture of Bender on the Insurance Agency's website."

"Good work. Hang around for another hour then call it a night."

"Will do. Want me to follow him tomorrow? Or should I tail the blonde?"

The way the man said the last sentence caused Deke to pause, to reconsider the plan. It was clear the man wanted to follow the blonde. But the blonde _wasn't_ the target. Hardy was. Deke had had his doubts about this man. There were issues in his past. Deke wasn't privy to what they were. All he knew was the Marine Corps had given the man his walking papers in the form of a General Discharge. Anything other than Honorable invited questions. Deke had tried to answer those questions. All he'd found out was the man had had problems with members of the opposite sex. Deke wasn't sure what that meant, but he didn't need this guy going rogue, going off on his own agenda when he was working for Deke.

"You know who I hired you to follow," Deke's voice was cold and hard. "Stick to the plan or I find someone else to do this job. Understood?"

"Understood," the man said pleasantly. "Call you tomorrow afternoon? Or do you want to do the calling?"

"I'll call you." Deke ended the call, a sick feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. He was going to have to watch this guy.

The bartender placed a steak dinner in front of Deke. "There you go, bro. Need some A-1 with that?"

Deke looked at the food. Everything was just the way he liked it, except he'd lost his appetite. "Hey, can you make this to-go? Something just came up and I have to leave."

The bartender looked perplexed for a second and then shrugged. "Yeah, sure."

Five minutes later Deke was out the door, his dinner in a box, and headed to his vehicle. He hadn't even said good-night to Rachel.

* * *

 _A/N: Thank you all for the reviews. I like that you're all trying to piece this puzzle together and figure out who the killer is. When I read a mystery, I usually just read along and don't try to figure it out until near the end. :)_


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Saturday morning Joe rolled out of bed bright and early. Well, the bright part was true, sunlight gleamed around the edges of the curtains. However, eight-thirty didn't exactly count as early, not even to Joe Hardy. But he'd slept better last night than he had in several nights so that was a positive. The day was starting off on the right foot.

Vanessa was already up. Joe could hear her in the kitchen making breakfast. A second later she appeared at the bedroom door, a kitchen towel draped over a shoulder.

A radiant smile lit her face and eyes. "Good, you're awake and out of bed. We're having breakfast with Nancy and Frank in twenty minutes. Can you be ready by then?"

"Can I be ready by then?" Joe deadpanned. "Who do you think you're dealing with? I was in the army. I can be ready at a moment's notice. A shower and shave will take me less than fifteen minutes." He stepped closer to his fiancée, a wicked grin hitching the corners of his mouth. "That leaves me five minutes to spare. Five minutes to do this." He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her passionately.

When the kiss ended, Vanessa smiled and pressed a hand to his bare chest. A hard, exquisitely, muscled chest. "Not that I didn't enjoy the kiss, because I did, but now you only have nineteen minutes to get ready."

"Still plenty of time." Joe winked and headed for the bathroom, a huge smile splitting his face. It was damn good to be home.

# # # #

The four of them sat at the dining table in Frank and Nancy's apartment. During breakfast the conversation had been light, basically catching up on what they'd all been doing the last few days. Dishes were cleared and now they sat, lingering over coffee. The atmosphere was different, somehow more serious.

Joe set his coffee mug down and looked across the table at Nancy. "Nan, did you get a chance to check on that person I asked you about? I know I didn't give you much notice."

Joe had called Nancy yesterday afternoon when he stopped to get gas. That was shortly after he'd left Healy. A thought had come to him, actually a person's name had come to him. A person he had neglected to investigate.

Nancy smiled at Joe. "I did. Let me get my notes."

She went to the bedroom and emerged a second later with a notebook. She returned to her place at the table, opened the notebook, and flipped through the pages until she came to the one she wanted. There was an efficiency about her movements. She was very methodical and precise.

"Here we go," she said and read from the notebook. "Orin Wayne Banyan, our client's biological father." Nancy lifted her head and met Joe's gaze. "He was fairly easy to research. He died seven years ago. According to his obituary," she glanced at the notebook for a split second, "he died of lung cancer."

Joe blew out a breath. "Well, that rules him out as a suspect in these murders."

Nancy skimmed her notes and said, "Orin was married to Dolores Mueller for three years, at least on paper. They may have separated before they actually divorced."

"That's usually how it works," Joe agreed.

"As far as I can tell, they only had one child together, our client, Wayne Banyan. From the dates, it appears that Dolores and Orin _officially_ divorced when Wayne was two years old." Nancy looked at Joe. "Has Wayne ever mentioned his biological father?"

"No." Joe shook his head sadly. "Never mentioned any of his family, until now."

Nancy nodded as she absorbed this information. "That's all I found on Orin Banyan. It was a quick search. I can keep searching if you'd like."

"Thanks, Nan, but I think that's enough. I just wanted to check the status of Wayne's father." Joe wrapped his hands around his coffee mug. One thumb rubbed the smooth surface as he gathered his thoughts. "These murders .. they've .. they've all been violent. You can see the rage. These murders .. are personal. I can feel it. Whoever killed Dan Sagget and Dolores Gage knew them and hated them."

Vanessa lightly stroked Joe's forearm and asked, "Who gains from these murders? Did either Dan or Dolores have a life insurance policy?"

Joe looked at his fiancée. A smile of admiration lit his eyes. "That's a good question and the answer for Dan Sagget is _no_. Detective Ziegler confirmed that when I asked him about it. Ziegler said Sagget didn't have any life insurance. Can't say that surprised me. Dan was still working the same job he'd worked twenty years ago. A starting position at the docks. Doesn't look like Sagget ever tried to advance in his career."

"Not much of a go getter," Frank said.

Joe looked at his brother and smirked. "He was only a go getter when it came to women. I heard he liked to play the field. Even had an affair with Kyle Nicholson's wife. In case you forgot, Nicholson was Sagget's boss."

"What a mess," Vanessa said and wrinkled her nose. "Quite a lot of intrigue for such a small town."

"Yeah," Joe said nodding. "As for Dolores Gage, Ziegler hasn't had time to check if she had life insurance. My feeling is, if she had any, it won't be much. She and her husband appear to have lived paycheck to paycheck. Not a lot of extra bucks to go around in that household."

Nancy tilted her head. "So, if Dolores had life insurance that means her husband, Randy, would be the beneficiary. Probably the only beneficiary. That could give him a motive for murder, especially if the insurance payout was a high. How did Randy feel about Dan Sagget?"

Joe snorted softly. "Got the feeling Randy didn't like Dan. Seems no one liked Dan."

"Except for women," Frank pointed out. "You said he had affairs."

"Yeah, I did." Joe rubbed his chin and thought it over. Men hated Dan, but women apparently didn't. Was that important?

Nancy spoke, bringing Joe out of his thoughts. "We need to find out if Dolores Gage had life insurance and, if so, how much the payout was and who the beneficiaries were."

"I can find that out." Vanessa beamed at her companions. "Don't look so stunned everyone. I'm an insurance agent, remember? _Farmers Insurance_ offers life insurance. I can use the database and, um, a few contacts if needed and get some answers."

Joe turned to Vanessa, his expression grave and cautious. "I don't want you getting in trouble. I can wait for Ziegler to find out. He'll shared whatever he finds with me."

"That could take days," Vanessa said. "I can probably find out in a few minutes. An hour at most."

"Even if it's not _Farmers Insurance_?" Joe countered.

Vanessa grinned. "That's why I said _a few contacts_. Insurance companies share information when needed."

Joe's brow knotted and he seemed unsure. "I don't know about this, babe. Your search could raise red flags and you could lose your insurance license. This case isn't worth that."

Vanessa leaned and patted Joe's forearm. "I'll be extra, extra careful. Trust me, I know what I'm doing."

Joe laid a hand on top of Vanessa's. "Guess I'll have to."

Frank cleared his throat. "Not to change the topic, but we may have a problem."

All heads turned in Frank's direction and eyebrows rose in question.

"Such as," Nancy asked.

"Such as a new vehicle that suddenly appeared in the alley late yesterday afternoon. It left around midnight and reappeared this morning," Frank told everyone.

Nancy licked her lips. "You mean that gray pick-up truck with the camper top?"

"That's the one." Frank gave an empathic nod.

It was Vanessa's turn to be stunned. She stared at Frank with open curiosity. "You know when there's a strange vehicle parked in the alley?"

"Yes," Frank told her rather curtly. "In our business, and with some of the cases we work, it pays to watch our surroundings. We never take anything for granted."

Vanessa slumped back in her chair. "Wow, I guess not."

Joe locked eyes with Frank. "You think this has to do with my case?"

Frank's jaw tightened. "Seems the most likely possibility given everything we know about Nicholson and the fact he put a GPS tracker on your truck."

The color drained from Vanessa's face as she looked at Joe. "You didn't tell me about that. A GPS tracker?"

Joe tried to downplay the news. "I got rid of it as soon as I found it."

"Wait," Vanessa said, "is that how those thugs found you at that bar?"

Joe had to give her credit, she was quick on the uptake. Extremely quick. "Probably. But look, I'm fine."

Nancy sensed tensions rising and cut in, "So, Nicholson is still interested in you, Joe. And your investigation, even when you're not in Healy. What has him so worried?"

"Good question," Frank said. "And one we need to answer."

"Agreed," Joe said and glanced at Vanessa. The news about the truck may have shaken her a bit, but she hid it well.

"First things first," Nancy said in her very logical, very precise manner. "What are we going to do about the man in the gray truck?"

Frank leaned forward and put his arms on the table. "The hunter has just become the hunted. Let's give him multiple targets and see which one he follows."

# # # #

Predator. That was the name he had given himself. He was an efficient, effective killing machine. Or animal. Yes, an animal. That fit him better. More accurate.

Just as a mountain lion hunted its prey, so did the Predator. He watched as the intended victim went about their daily life, gleaning their routine and habits.

The hours spent watching his prey heated his blood. Caused his need and desire to build, to become almost unbearable …

Deke's lackey, Travis, had called this morning and given the Predator a warning.

"Deke's worried about you," Travis had said. "He thinks you're going to go off on your own agenda."

The Predator had silently laughed at that. Worried? Now? Deke knew the Predator was bad news when he hired him. Deke had the Predator's records. Nothing was hidden. Oh, wait. Not everything was in those records.

A nasty smile crept across the Predator's face. The Marine Corps had elected not to put the more, um, unsavory details in the record. As the Predator's commanding officer put it, "We're trying to give you a second chance."

The Predator had silently laughed then, too. A second chance? Wasn't that nice of the Corps. So thoughtful of them to allow him to keep honing his skills. He hadn't quite gotten it right in the Corps. The women there were trained to defend themselves and they had. Viciously.

Civilian women would be different he thought.

He sat in his truck and watched the back door of the _Endeavor Detective Agency_. The target – Joseph Hardy – and the blonde had entered over an hour ago. The Predator replayed the events of the morning in his mind. The couple had left the second floor apartment at nine and proceeded down the metal stairs, the blonde carrying a covered platter. The Predator had watched her intently. She was tall and lovely with a sweet smile.

Joseph Hardy had chosen well. A lucky man indeed.

The Predator didn't use the blonde's name when he thought of her. Using her name would make her a person, a living, breathing human. She could never be that, not to him. She was a target, a future victim. Someone to use and dispose of. Therefore, she remained, _the blonde_. A gorgeous, stately blonde with a sweet smile. He did not think she would be smiling on the day he trapped her.

The back door of the _Endeavor_ opened and the blonde and another woman exited. The new woman had blonde hair sprinkled with coppery highlights. She was shorter than the blonde and carried herself with poise and purpose. The Predator wasn't sure how he felt about her. Something in the way she walked reminded him of the women in the military.

The Predator decided to ignore the new woman and focus on the blonde. The two women went up the metal stairs, talking the whole way, and disappeared into the second floor apartment.

The Predator's desires had surged when he saw the blonde and plummeted just as rapidly when she disappeared. He felt like a hungry lion being offered food. Cruelly, the food was yanked away just as he reached for it. The smell, though, lingered, taunting the lion. In this case, the image of the blonde remained, shimmering in the Predator's mind.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and eyed the apartment door intently. His brow was sweaty and his heart hammered. She was there … inside.

The door opened and he jerked. The two women descended the stairs, talking and smiling. The morning sun lit their faces. Both were lovely, but the blonde was .. was more .. more to his liking. The other woman reminded him too much of the women in the Marine Corps. Too stiff and … and … professional.

The women got in a car and drove off. The Predator took a deep breath and tried to quell the pounding of his heart.

The back door of the _Endeavor_ opened again and Joseph Hardy came out. He went up the metal stairs and into the apartment. Moments later, he emerged with a duffel bag and hurried down the stairs. He climbed into his truck and backed up.

The Predator started his engine and followed Hardy's truck out of the alley.

# # # #

Joe spoke into his truck's Bluetooth system as he drove. "He's on my tail," Joe told his brother. "He didn't hesitate at all. Followed me as soon as I backed out of my parking spot."

"Either he's new at tailing someone," Frank mused, "or he's over confident and doesn't think we'll spot him."

"Either way works to our advantage," Joe said.

"That it does," Frank agreed. "I'll call Detective Rivera at the River Heights PD and see if he can run the license plate on the truck. I'll let you know what he says."

Detective Rivera was a friend of the Hardys and Nancy Drew. Rivera had worked with the trio on previous cases. They had earned his respect, trust, and cooperation.

"Talk to you later," Joe said and ended the call.

Joe slowed for an upcoming light and glanced in the rearview mirror. The truck was three cars behind him. Joe peered hard and caught a glimpse of the driver, a man with a baseball hat, sunglasses, and a beard.

The light turned green and Joe accelerated. He hoped to get a better look at the man when he got to the gym and parked. That meant the man had to pull into the parking lot.

Well, no such luck. When Joe turned left into the gym parking lot, the truck continued down the street. Joe parked and hit the steering wheel with a fist. So close. He grabbed his duffel bag and headed for the gym. His anger faded as a thought occurred to him, he might get another chance. The truck might be in the parking lot when he came out of the gym. Good, he had something to look forward to at the end of his workout.

Joe spent forty minutes going at the punching bag. Head down, knees bent, fists working like pistons. One-two, left-right. He danced back, took a breath, and went at the bag again. The weight bench received thirty minutes of his time when he finished with the punching bag. He was hot and sweaty and breathing heavily when he dropped the last weight, but he felt great. A good workout was a mood enhancer. He never felt more alive than when his blood was pumping vigorously through his veins.

He scooped a towel off the weight bench and wiped his face and neck. A two mile run on the outdoor track was next. But first, he needed sunglasses. His phone rang just as he opened his locker. It was Frank.

Joe put the phone to his ear. "What's up, bro?"

"Rivera ran the license plate number. It belongs to a rental car," Frank sounded disappointed. "Rivera wouldn't tell me which rental place. It's against police regulations to give out that information."

"Doesn't matter," Joe said. "We can't describe the man in the truck. I got a glimpse of him. All I can say is he has a beard."

"A beard, huh?"

"Yep. A beard, sunglasses and a baseball hat."

Frank laughed. "That's not very helpful."

"Exactly," Joe said. "Maybe he'll be waiting in the parking lot when I leave the gym. If he is, I'll try to get a better look at him."

"Okay, sounds good," Frank said and hung up.

# # # #

The gray truck was nowhere in sight when Joe came out of the gym. Well, that was interesting. Joe would have bet money the truck would be here, in the parking lot. He was further surprised when the truck was not in the alley behind the _Endeavor_.

Joe took his duffel bag and entered through the back door of the _Endeavor_. He locked the door, walked past the staircase that led to the second floor apartment, and into the office. Frank was at his desk doing paperwork.

"Hey," Joe said. "I thought you had finished all your cases."

Frank lifted his head. "Paying the bills. It's almost the first of October."

"Ahh, so it is." Joe dropped his bag on the floor and rested a hip on the edge of Nancy's desk. "Any sign of the truck?"

Frank shook his head. "Nope and I've been checking front and back of the building every twenty minutes."

The corners of Joe's mouth curved downward. "Do you think he switched vehicles?"

"Possible, but no new vehicles have shown up around here." Frank leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

A perplexed frown creased Joe's brow. "Do you think we were wrong? That maybe the guy wasn't a tail at all. Maybe he was here visiting someone in the building."

Frank gave a half-hearted shrug. "The thought has crossed my mind. But he took right after you when you left."

"Could've been a coincidence," Joe said. "Maybe he just happened to be leaving at the same time I was."

"Maybe." Frank did not look convinced. "I think it's best to remain cautious. We need to keep an eye out for the driver."

"Totally agree," Joe said. He did not believe in coincidences any more than Frank did. "Have you heard from the girls?"

"Yeah, Nancy called a little while ago and said they'd be home in an hour. I asked her if she'd seen the truck and she said no. Of course, if he was following you he had no way of knowing where the girls were."

"True," Joe said. "Well, I've got things to do before you and I leave tomorrow. I have to unpack, do some laundry, and repack."

"We're leaving at noon, right?"

Joe smiled. "There abouts."

Frank returned the smile. "I'll be ready whenever you are. I did a little packing this morning while everyone was gone. Oh, the girls want to go to the Italian restaurant across the street for dinner tonight. Six-thirty sound good to you."

"Six-thirty sounds great."

Joe grabbed his duffel off the floor and went to his room. It was a small room off of the office. Originally, it had been a storage room, but Joe had turned it into a bedroom. There was a small bathroom off of the office and that was Joe's, too. The office even had a kitchen counter complete with a sink, coffee-maker, and cabinets. Joe had almost everything he needed downstairs.

That left the upstairs apartment to Frank and Nancy. Of course, Joe was welcome up there any time he liked and during the week he was a frequent visitor. The weekends, however, were a different story. He usually spent Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights in Vanessa's apartment. Actually, it wasn't _her_ apartment. It was her aunt and uncle's. They lived there with Vanessa during the week. On Friday afternoons the aunt and uncle drove two hours to a home in the countryside. It was their retirement home and their retirement was fast approaching.

What would happen to Vanessa's job when her aunt and uncle retired and sold the insurance agency was unknown. Joe and Vanessa often discussed her options. Joe was in favor of Vanessa coming to work at the _Endeavor_. Vanessa wasn't keen on the idea. She'd worked hard to get her insurance agent license and enjoyed her job. _Farmers Insurance_ was a good company to work for with good promotion opportunities. Vanessa did not want to give that up. Having her own career was important to her.

Joe tossed his duffel on his bed. Vanessa's aunt and uncle weren't retiring for another year and no decisions could be made until the agency was sold, so end of story.

Joe turned his mind to other things. Like laundry. He dumped the contents of his duffel on the bed and started sorting clothes. The gray truck worked its way into his thoughts. Had it been a coincidence? Just a random visitor?

No, Joe thought. The truck had deliberately followed him out of the alley and stayed on his tail until he got to the gym. Sure, the truck hadn't reappeared. _Yet_. That was the key word. Joe had a feeling the driver of the truck would be back.

* * *

 _A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews. Many times your comments are helpful - as in, they show me what I have neglected to mention or explore. So, thanks again for leaving a review._


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Joe laid Wayne Banyan's contract and check on Nancy's desk. He should have given them to her earlier – this morning at breakfast – but had forgotten. Well, there they were now and another 'to do' checked off his list. His clothes were freshly laundered and his duffel repacked – mostly. A few last minute items remained and those would be added tomorrow morning.

It was six-thirty-three p.m. and the sun had officially set. _And_ Joe was officially late for his dinner date with Vanessa, Frank, and Nancy. Three minutes late to be exact. Did that really count as late?

Joe dimmed the office lights and left through the front door. He locked the door and walked across the street to _Ragazzi's_ , a family owned Italian restaurant. The food was delicious and the owners big-hearted in that way only Italians could be. Joe, Frank, and their fiancées were frequent customers.

Joe maneuvered his way through the outdoor patio. It was surrounded by a low fence sparkling with strings of white lights. Joe passed umbrella topped tables aglow with candlelight. Tiny white Christmas lights circled the umbrella stems and offered more light for diners. The patio was beautiful, a perfect romantic setting. Two couples were seated at a table and enjoying glasses of wine. Their quiet conversation drifted on the night air.

Joe kind of wished Vanessa, Nancy, and Frank had asked for a table outside. Then a cool breeze swept by, reminding him it was late September, and he gladly entered the restaurant.

Tony Junior greeted Joe at the door. Tony was a big strapping kid, all of eighteen years old, and the owner's son. "Hey, you're finally here, Mr. Hardy. Your friends are in the back waiting for you. I'll take you to them."

Another couple walked in and Joe said, "That's okay, Tony. I know my way. Thanks."

"Okay." Tony nodded at Joe then turned and greeted the couple.

Joe walked around the partition that separated the hostess area from the restaurant. He spotted Vanessa, Nancy, and Frank at their usual table situated far in the back near the window that faced the street.

As Joe approached he heard Frank say, "Here he comes. Late as usual."

"Hey," Joe said, his arms out, "I'm fashionably late. Big difference, bro."

Frank grinned, shook his head, and rolled his eyes.

Vanessa stood and placed a kiss on Joe's cheek. "I'm glad you're here, babe. I was starting to get worried that maybe the guy in the truck had come back."

Joe helped Vanessa into her seat and sat next to her and across from his brother. "No, haven't seen the guy in the truck again," Joe told the group. "I was finishing up my 'to do' list and time kinda got away from me. Sorry everyone."

Vanessa looped an arm through Joe's. "No problem. By the way, I ordered you a beer." She indicated the glass on the table with a nod of her chin.

Joe smiled at his lovely fiancée. "Thanks, babe. You're so thoughtful. Always looking out for me."

"And don't forget it," Vanessa said and laughed. Then her expression softened and she gently brushed Joe's cheek with the back of her hand where one of the thug's had landed a good punch. The area was still tender and she saw Joe give the smallest flinch. "Someone has to take care of you, babe."

Joe took Vanessa's hand and kissed her knuckles. His voice was sincere when he spoke, "Are you sure you want to take care of me for the rest of your life, Van?"

Vanessa peered deep into Joe's sky blue eyes. "That's a lot to ask of someone, but I can honestly say, I've never been more sure of anything in my life. I love you, Joe Hardy, and I promise to take care of you for the rest of my life."

Frank lifted his wine glass. "Sounds like good words for our wedding day. Mind if I use them when we all get married?" He cast an affectionate gaze at Nancy sitting beside him and she smiled her approval.

"Maybe we all should use them," Nancy said. She lifted her wine glass and she and Frank sipped in unison, never taking their eyes off one another.

"Good idea," Joe said. "We can make it part of the double ceremony."

Vanessa smiled at her table mates. "I'm honored. How about we add another line?" She turned to Joe. "Do you, Joseph Hardy, promise to do the same for me? Will you take care of me for the rest of my life?"

"That's easy, babe. Absolutely, one hundred percent, yes." Joe lightly kissed Vanessa's lips. He'd been wanting to do that since he sat down.

Frank leaned over and kissed Nancy. Why not? The mood was definitely romantic.

A waiter arrived with fresh baked bread and flavored oil. He placed them on the table and asked if the group was ready to order. When the answer was, no, he left, promising to return in a few minutes.

Nancy broke off a piece of bread and said, "Vanessa and I had a great time shopping for shoes today. I'm happy to report we each found exactly what we wanted."

Joe looked up from the menu he was perusing. "Remind me again why you ladies need new shoes for the wedding."

Vanessa cocked her head and smiled. "To go with our wedding dresses. The color of the shoes has to match the dresses."

Joe peered quizzically at his fiancée. "Why?"

Nancy explained the finer points of wedding attire. "Because our dresses are knee length. Our shoes are going to be visible, so they have to coordinate with the dress color and style. It's like your tuxedo, your suit is black so your shoes should be black. That way they blend in with the outfit as opposed to contrasting with it."

Vanessa clarified, "White shoes with your tux would stick out like a sore thumb." She shuddered at the thought.

Frank sat quietly, chewing bread. Joe looked at his brother and Frank gave him a small grin as if to say, been through all of this already, no use in arguing about it.

Joe laid down his menu and said, "Okay, I guess that makes sense. So now, I need to get some black shoes."

Vanessa's eyes widened in surprise. "You don't have _any_ black shoes?"

Joe laughed. "Haha, got ya."

"Joe," Vanessa chided and gave him a playful slap on the arm.

"But are those shoes in good shape?" Frank asked and Joe's smile fell.

Joe glared at his brother. "Haven't really checked them in a while."

Frank grinned. "You might want to do that."

"I'll add it to my 'to do' list," Joe hissed.

# # # #

Over dinner Vanessa turned the conversation to business. She twirled spaghetti onto her fork and said, "I have some information on Randy Gage."

Everyone looked at Vanessa expectantly.

"I checked the database," she said. "Randy Gage does have _Farmers Insurance_. He has a five thousand dollar life insurance policy on his wife Dolores."

"That hardly seems worth killing someone for," Nancy said and took a bite of her grilled salmon.

"I agree," Frank said. "Five thousand dollars might help him pay off a loan or catch up on some bills, but it's not life changing."

"He really seemed brokenhearted about his wife's death," Joe told the group. "I don't see him as the murderer."

"I do have some other news," Vanessa said and all eyes turned to her again. "There's a real estate lady I've gotten to know who lives in Healy. We've worked a couple of home insurance cases together. I remembered that she once mentioned she owns a rental home on the Illinois River. I called her this afternoon and asked about renting the place. She was ecstatic. Apparently, at this time of year, it's hard to find renters. Ms. Bentley offered the place to me for a very reasonable, very modest, weekly rate. It also has a pier and a boat for the renter's use." Vanessa exchanged glances with Joe and Frank. "I thought you two might want to rent it this week. It has two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen, dining room, and living room. Oh, and a back deck with a fire pit."

Frank looked at Joe and said, "Sounds like heaven and it'll be way bigger than a hotel room."

"And way better. I love the idea." Joe was thinking of the boat and how he could use it in the investigation. He turned to Vanessa. "What's the price for a week?"

Vanessa told him and he and Frank were dumbfounded. It was half the price of a hotel room for a week.

"Tell her we'll take it," Joe said. "Can we get the keys tomorrow afternoon?"

Vanessa smiled. "Already asked her that and she said yes. I'll call her after we finish dinner and let her know you want the place for a week."

Joe bumped his shoulder against Vanessa's. "You're really taking care of me, babe. Thanks. This rental sounds perfect and it'll save us money."

"Happy to help." Vanessa relished being part of the investigation – even in a small way. Though she might not have the training and skills to deal with an armed suspect, she did have other talents, other ways to help, and she had just proven that to the group.

# # # #

The four of them stood in the back alley. Nancy slipped a key into the lock and opened the back door of the _Endeavor_ office. Joe and Vanessa said tonight to Frank and Nancy and watched them disappear into the building. Joe linked arms with Vanessa and they climbed the metal stairs to her apartment. Joe thought about dinner and how much he had enjoyed being with his brother and their fiancées. It had been relaxing and fun.

"I enjoyed dinner," he told Vanessa.

She smiled at him and his heart fluttered. "Me, too," she said.

They reached the door and she unlocked it. They stepped inside and Joe locked the door. He'd discreetly scanned the alley as they'd climbed the stairs. He'd been looking for the gray truck and hadn't seen it. That was good news, but it begged the question of, why? Joe didn't think the driver would give up this quickly.

Vanessa toed off her pumps and said, "I'll call Ms. Bentley and let her know you want the rental home. It'll only take me a minute. Then I want to show you the wedding dresses I chose. You have to pick the one you like best."

The corner of Joe's mouth twitched in a grimace and he wished it hadn't. The disappointment on Vanessa's face was obvious and it pained him to realize he was the cause. He tried to make amends. "Hey, I'm sorry. It's just that, well, am I supposed to see the dress before the wedding? I mean, isn't it bad luck or something if I see it before we get married?"

Vanessa hung her keys on the hook beside the door. Her back was partially to Joe. It was as if she couldn't completely face him. "I don't know. It's just .. just that I want you to be part of the decision." She turned and faced him. "I love you, Joe. We're in this together, this wedding, and I want to make this decision together. I want you to love the dress as much as I do. I'm not sure why it's important to me. It just is."

She knew why it was important to her. She wanted things to be different than they had been with her first husband. But Joe did not need to hear that.

Joe moved closer and put his hands on the sides of her face. "It's okay. I understand. I'd love to see the dresses." He kissed her softly to reassure her troubled spirit.

"Are you sure, Joe?"

"Positive."

A small smile surfaced. "Okay, let me make the call to Ms. Bentley and then I'll get the dresses."

"I'm going to change while you make the phone call," Joe said.

He headed to the bedroom and slipped out of his evening clothes – out of the nice pants and button down shirt – and pulled on a pair of sweatpants. That was as far as he got. Vanessa came into the bedroom and opened the closet doors.

Over her shoulder she said, "You and Frank are good to go. Ms. Bentley will meet you tomorrow at the house with the key. I told her you'd probably get to Healy around three or four in the afternoon." Vanessa pushed some hanging clothes aside and reached into the closet. "That work for you?"

"Yeah. Sounds perfect." Joe was still a bit unsure about this whole dress thing. Was it bad luck?

Vanessa spun and held up two cream colored dresses. Each was inside a clear plastic bag. She laid the dresses, side by side, on the bed and straightened out the clear plastic.

She motioned Joe closer. "C'mon, have a look. Tell me which one you like better."

Joe stepped forward like a timid kitten venturing out into the world for the first time. Again, he thought, what difference does the dress make? It was more a means to an end. The dress got him to the honeymoon. Okay, that was important.

Joe crossed his arms and studied the dresses. The one on the right was lacy and kind of busy. The one on the left was more simple, and in his mind, more elegant. It had some lace and beads. Not much. Just enough to class it up and make it special.

"Well?" Vanessa prompted.

Joe furrowed his brow and pointed. "The-the one on the left."

Vanessa broke into a huge smile. "That's the one I like, too." She threw her arms around Joe's neck and kissed him. "Thanks, babe. I know this was hard for you. Dresses aren't really your thing."

She laughed in that lighthearted way of hers and Joe felt the tension leave his body.

"Well, you'd never catch me in a dress," he deadpanned. "At least, I hope you never catch me in a dress." He liked how her eyes sparkled when she was happy.

Her voice dropped an octave and she said, "Would you like to see me in the dress? It looks different on than just lying on the bed."

Joe gave the question a split-second of thought. "I'd rather to see you in nothing."

Vanessa giggled. It was giddy and a kind of sexy. "Ahem. Here, help me hang up these dresses."

Joe picked up the one on the right, Vanessa picked up the one on the left, and they carried them to the closet. Their bodies rubbed against each other as they hung the dresses on the clothes bar. Vanessa ran her hands down the plastic bags covering the dresses and smoothed out the wrinkles. Joe licked his lips. He wanted her hands running down the length of his body.

All he had on was his sweatpants and underwear. Wouldn't take much to be naked .. and beside Vanessa .. in the bed. She didn't have much on either. Just the dress she'd worn to dinner.

Vanessa straightened and met Joe's gaze. He felt her presence, the essence of her being, how warm and wonderful she was. How loving and gentle.

Her lavender scent bridged the gap between them as they stood in silence gazing at each other.

Her felt the touch of her hand on his bare arm and a thousand sparks ignited in his stomach. A bolt of desire charged through him. Her arms slid around his waist and her head tilted back. She looked up at him through hooded eyes, all soft and sexy, their lips an inch apart. Her eyes shone in the light from the bedside tables.

He leaned into her as she leaned into him and they kissed. Their lips moved slowly, purposely, sensually against each other.

For Joe, it was like ice melting, like a long awaited spring had come. This was the way it was supposed to be when a man loved a woman. Soft, sweet, and gentle.

Vanessa ended the kiss and tucked her head into the hollow of his neck. Joe held her tight and felt her heart beat against his chest. They didn't move or speak. Just held each other and relived the moment, the kiss, the joy of being together.

Later – much later – they lay in bed, tangled together, the moonlight trickling through the slatted blinds on the window.

Joe kissed Vanessa's cheek and whispered, "Good-night, babe. I love you."

Vanessa was on the edge sleep. "Hmmmm.."

The room was dark and peaceful. There was a serenity in the air, a rare and extraordinary thing. A person could always use a good dose of serenity, Joe thought. And a good dose of peace and calm.

What was the old saying, the calm before the storm?

Joe was too tired to complete the thought. He felt the welcome pull of sleep and gave into it.

# # # #

The Predator sat in a ratty hotel room, sipping a beer. The TV was on, but he wasn't watching it. He liked the noise though. It filled the space and made him feel as if he wasn't all alone in the world. Illusions. Everybody needed them. The Predator chugged his beer and glanced at the TV. The people on the TV lived pretend lives. Not much different than the real world if you asked him.

People all over the world were trudging through life just like him.

He hadn't gone to the alley this afternoon. Too dangerous. The Predator had a feeling that maybe – just maybe – Joe Hardy knew he was being followed.

Yeah, so best to stay away for a while. Give Hardy a chance to let down his guard. Maybe he'd go back to Healy like Deke and Travis had said. Predator smiled. It would be perfect if Joe Hardy left town for a few days. That was exactly what Predator wanted .. Joe out of town for a few days.

Deke had informed Predator this afternoon that he was off the job. Fired. No longer needed, thank you very much.

Predator didn't care. Actually, he was happy. Deke had unwittingly led Predator to a victim so it was a win-win for Predator. And now, he was free to pursue his plans.

First, he would bide his time. Make his prey think he had gone away. Of course, he hadn't and he wouldn't.

No, he wouldn't leave until he had what he wanted.

 _The blonde_.

She consumed his every thought.

* * *

 _A/N: Sorry about the delay in posting. A couple of 'life' issues came up, not to mention that I almost stepped on a rattlesnake in my backyard! I was only five or six feet away from it when I spotted it. Who knew they could blend into the dappled shadows of a tree so well. Ack! I was pretty shaken up for the rest of the day. I did manage to take a video of it slithering away. I wanted proof to show my husband that 'there was a rattlesnake in the yard!' when he came home later. Yep, that's a western diamondback, he said. Great, hope I never see another one! Now I'm super caution every time I go in the backyard._

 _Okay, enough about me. Thank you to those who left a review on the previous chapter(s). Reviews are not necessary, but they are nice to receive. :)_


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Joe tossed the last item into his duffel bag and zipped it shut. It was late Sunday morning. Joe had told Frank to be ready to leave in an hour. They were burning daylight and wasting time. It was time to get back to Healy. Joe had a lot to accomplish in Healy this afternoon and, hopefully, tonight. A list was forming in his head.

First, check out the container graveyard outside the fence of _Nicholson Dockworks_. Something about that area bothered Joe. Could it be the fact Nicholson didn't want anyone poking around there? Could it be the armed guards patrolling the area? Or maybe it was something else. Joe felt that he and Frank needed to poke around there. They might shake something loose, like a clue.

Second on Joe's list was to use the boat that came with the rental house and take a trip down the river. Joe wanted to find that piece of land Nicholson owned, the one with the white building and the propane tank. There had to be something hidden there. Something that required heat.

Frank poked his head into Joe's bedroom. "Joe, I'm ready any time you are."

"Great. Give me fifteen minutes and we'll hit the road," Joe said over his shoulder. "I need to say good-by to Vanessa and I want to ask Nancy a question. Is she upstairs?"

"Yeah, she's loading the dishwasher. Hey, while you're saying your good-byes, I'll load my stuff in my vehicle."

Joe nodded and Frank left. The brothers were taking Frank's SUV to Healy and leaving Joe's truck in River Heights. Joe's truck was known to Deke and Travis and they would be looking for it. Common sense said to arrive in a different vehicle, one Deke and Travis weren't familiar with. Sure, they'd figure it out in a day or two, but that gave Joe and Frank a day or two of exploring without being followed.

Joe lifted his duffel, carried it to the back door of the office, and set it down. Then he hurried up the stairs to Frank and Nancy's apartment.

Joe found Nancy in the kitchen area wiping her hands on a dish towel. The dishwasher was running and Nancy looked pleased that she'd completed one chore of the day.

"Nan, I wanted to ask you something before Frank and I take off."

"Sure." Nancy folded the dish towel and laid it on the kitchen counter. She turned to Joe, smiled, and rested a hip against the counter. "What's on your mind?"

Joe stepped closer to Nancy and she saw how serious he was. Concern and fear flickered in his eyes.

"How's Vanessa's training coming along?" he asked, trying to sound casual. "I mean, how's she doing in the martial arts classes you two are taking?"

Nancy knew Joe wanted an honest answer, an honest assessment of Vanessa's abilities. His real question was, could she defend herself?

Nancy chose her words carefully, "Vanessa is stronger than she realizes and I remind her of that all the time. But therein lies her problem. When she spars with other students, I see her hesitate at times. She doubts her abilities and lacks confidence. As you and I both know, that kind of confidence only comes with experience. _Real_ experience, such as in a _real_ fight where your life depends on it. Vanessa doesn't have that kind of experience and, honestly, I hope she never does."

Joe leaned against the counter beside Nancy and blew out a breath. "Me, too, Nan. But I have to face reality. There's some guy out there possibly following me. What's to say he won't go after someone I love? Maybe that's why he was sent here. I need to know if Vanessa can handle herself, at least until help arrives."

Nancy studied Joe's face for a moment. She saw how deeply he cared about Vanessa and her safety. And rightly so.

"I can't rid you of all your fears," Nancy said quietly. "What I can tell you is, Vanessa is not a quitter. I've watched her in class these past seven months. She puts everything she has into each and every lesson. She has a lot of grit and determination. If she found herself in a situation where she had to fight – had to really defend herself – I believe she would. But just to ease your mind, I plan on sticking close to her while you and Frank are away."

Joe visibly relaxed and nodded. "Good. Good. That's what I wanted to hear. How's she doing with the Glock? Her aim any better?"

A small smile broke the corners of Nancy's lips. "As you well know, Vanessa's not crazy about guns. They still intimidate her, but I'm working on it. We go to the shooting range once a week and she's getting more comfortable with the Glock. As to your question, her aim _is_ improving. But under stress .. well, I don't think her aim would be great."

Joe sighed. "Well, hopefully, she won't need a gun. But I'm glad to hear you'll keep an eye on her, that makes me feel a whole lot better."

Nancy stroked Joe's arm. "Vanessa and I will take care of each other. It'll be a two way street."

Joe sought Nancy's steady gaze. "I'll still worry about you guys, though. You know that."

Nancy smiled. "Of course, just like Vanessa and I will worry about you and Frank. It comes with the job."

"That's certainly true," Joe admitted. "Okay, come here and give me a hug good-bye."

Nancy turned into Joe's arms and he hugged her tightly. After a second, he brushed her cheek with a kiss and released her.

Joe winked and smiled. "I'll try and keep Frank out of trouble while we're away. You know how crazy he can get at times."

Nancy laughed out loud. "And I thought it was the other way around."

# # # #

Frank and Joe hit the road at noon. They had a three hour drive to Healy. Frank drove since it was his vehicle.

Joe sat in the passenger's seat, thinking about Vanessa. He lightly traced his lips with his fingertips. The taste of Vanessa's good-bye kiss lingered and the image of her face hovered in his mind. He loved her irrevocably and had since the first time he saw her. He hated leaving her behind and in the possible path of danger. Nancy's presence gave him some comfort, but he wouldn't rest easy until he knew the whereabouts of the man in the truck.

Frank cocked his head and shot his brother a sideways glance. "Thinking about Vanessa?"

Joe's brow creased as his head pivoted toward Frank. "Yeah, how'd you know?"

Frank shrugged and peered out the windshield. "Seemed the logical thing to do. I've been thinking about Nancy and the girls' safety while we're gone."

Joe straightened in his seat and stared out the windshield, too. Miles and miles of road stretched out in front of them. "Yeah, that makes two of us. The guy in the truck worries me. We don't know what his angle is. Is he working for Deke or Nicholson? Or is he off on his own?"

"Or is he visiting someone in the building?" Frank tried to sound logical.

Joe let out a derisive snort. "I don't buy the 'visiting' scenario."

Frank watched the road as he spoke, "Well, for what it's worth. Neither do I. Nancy and I talked about the guy in the truck last night. Nancy promised me she'll keep an eye on the alley. If any new vehicles or people show up, she'll let us know."

"Yeah, that's all well and good," Joe said, a note of wariness crept into his voice. "Still wish we didn't have to leave the girls behind. I sleep better when Vanessa's in bed with me."

"Know what helps me sleep at night?" Frank smiled broadly.

"What?"

"Nancy has a gun and knows how to use it." Frank chuckled and Joe joined him.

The laughter, however, was short lived.

Joe shook his head and said, "Glad one of our women knows how to use a gun. I talked to Nancy this morning. She said Vanessa's aim isn't so hot, but she's working on it."

"That's all we can ask," Frank said matter-of-factly. "That she keeps practicing and improving."

Yeah, Joe thought, that was all they could ask for. He remembered what Nancy had said, _Vanessa has a lot of grit and determination. If she found herself in a situation where she had to fight – had to really defend herself – I believe she would._

Joe didn't like the idea of Vanessa ever being in a situation where she was forced to fight for her life. That was his job. He was supposed to be there to protect her. Well, Nancy was there, he reminded himself. And she was a professional, a former Chicago police officer with plenty of training and experience. She had proven herself to both Frank and Joe on multiple occasions.

 _Vanessa was in good hands._

That thought would have to comfort Joe for the next five days. He didn't expect it to be easy.

# # # #

Frank and Joe pulled into the driveway of the rental home at three-thirty. The place looked nice. It was an older single story home with a covered front porch. A fence blocked the view of the backyard.

Frank opened his door, got out, and stretched. Joe climbed out of the SUV on the passenger side and Frank called across the vehicle, "We have fifteen minutes before Ms. Bentley gets here. Want to look around the place?"

"Yeah, let's." Joe was anxious to see the boat that came with the place.

The brothers shut their doors and headed to a gate in the fence. They casually surveyed the neighborhood as they walked. Homes along the road were spaced one to two acres apart. That gave everyone plenty of room and privacy.

A stone path guided the brothers to the gate. Joe lifted the latch, pushed the gate open, and let Frank pass through. Joe followed him, and the path, into the backyard. The brothers came upon a large lawn. Fencing ran down the sides of the property and was bordered by mature trees and shrubs. A small shed stood in one corner of the yard. Joe figured it stored a lawnmower and garden tools. The lawn looked as though it had been recently mowed.

Joe's wandering gaze came upon a stone patio and fire pit. Four wooden deck chairs circled the pit, offering nighttime seating for fires and river watching. Nice way to spend an evening, Joe thought.

Frank's voice broke into his thoughts. "This place is beautiful. I wouldn't mind sitting out here at night with a fire going and a cold beer in hand."

"Yeah," Joe mumbled. He had had the same thought, but now he was interested in something else, namely, the pier and boat. He spotted the pier and headed for it.

Frank trudged behind his brother. He saw a blue boat moored on the right side of the pier. "Nice looking boat," he said. "Looks like a seventeen footer."

"Yeah," Joe said over his shoulder. "I want a closer look."

Joe stopped at the spot where the boat was moored, crouched, and hopped down onto the boat. Frank stayed on the pier, peering back at the house, wondering if Ms. Bentley had arrived. He didn't think they would hear her vehicle from way back here and he certainly couldn't see the driveway from the pier. All those tall trees and fencing blocked his view.

Joe climbed back onto the pier. "Boat seats six people. Plenty of room for us and our gear."

Frank eyed his brother for a second. "Gear? What kind of gear?"

Joe lifted his head and met Frank's stony expression. "Night vision goggles. Handguns. Water."

"Sounds serious," Frank said as the brothers started walking along the pier and back to the house. "You have a particular destination in mind?"

"Yeah. A white building on one of Nicholson's properties. I'd like to check it out tonight."

Frank stopped walking. "Tonight? As in after dark?"

Joe nodded. "That would be an affirmative _and_ the reason I mentioned the night vision goggles."

Frank and Joe started walking again.

"Okay," Frank said, "in that case, I recommend we test drive the boat this afternoon. Get a feel for it before we use it at night. Make sure everything works and we know how to use everything."

Joe smiled at Frank as they walked. "That was my plan, bro."

Joe didn't see it, but Frank smiled, too. He was ready for a little action and, with Joe in charge, Frank figured there would be no shortage of that.

# # # #

Ms. Bentley showed up right on time. She was in her late forties and dressed in a pants' suit. Introductions were shared and Ms. Bentley produced the keys to the property. Two keys for the house. Two keys for the boat and one key for the shed in the backyard. Ms. Bentley walked the brothers through the house, pointing out features she thought they might like. The house was as nice as the backyard and came fully furnished. There were two generous bedrooms with attached bathrooms. Each bedroom had a dresser, walk-in closet (not that the brothers needed the space), and queen sized beds. The beds were made and fresh towels hung in the bathrooms.

The kitchen-dining room area was good sized and equipped with pots, pans, detergent, plates, silverware, etc. The living room had an overstuffed sofa, recliner, and a large flat screen TV.

Ms. Bentley stopped in the dining room and asked if everything was to the brothers' liking. Joe and Frank assured her it was.

What wasn't there to like, Joe thought. The place was perfect. He wished Vanessa could be there to enjoy with him.

"We love it," Frank said and handed Ms. Bentley a check.

Ms. Bentley scanned the check, noted the price was for a full week as agreed, and tucked it in her purse. She withdrew two copies of the rental agreement and placed them on the dining room table. The brothers dutifully read and signed each copy.

Ms. Bentley followed suit and signed each copy then handed one to Frank. "That's your copy of the rental agreement. The other is mine." She tucked her copy in her purse and extended a hand. Frank and Joe shook it. "Thank you," Ms. Bentley said with a polite, business smile. "I hope you both enjoy your stay. If you plan on using the boat, lifejackets and gas cans are in the shed. The boat's instruction manual is in the boat's cabin."

"Thanks," Joe said. "We were hoping to take the boat out for a spin. It's a real beauty."

Ms. Bentley's manicured brows rose and she eyed Joe thoughtfully. "Are you familiar with boats?"

"Yes," Frank said, drawing her attention. "We had one when we were teens. It was called the _Sleuth_."

"Oh." Ms. Bentley didn't seem overly impressed. Perhaps because the Hardys' were well past their teenage years. "Still, if you use the boat, please, read the instruction manual first."

"We will," Joe assured her and added a smile. He was ready for her to leave. They were wasting time. He and Frank had a lot to do.

"Well then, I think we're finished," Ms. Bentley said. "If you have any questions after I leave you can reach me at the number listed on the rental agreement."

"Thank you," Joe said. "I think you've answered all of our questions."

Ms. Bentley shook hands with the brothers once more and took her leave by the back door. Joe watched, through the dining room window, as she walked to her car.

"I'm hungry," Frank said behind him. "How about we get some burgers and take the boat out for a test ride."

Joe turned from the window. "You read my mind, bro. But let's unload our stuff first."

The brothers hauled in their duffel bags and gear – guns, rifles, ammo, and night vision goggles – and dumped it in the bedrooms. Well, to be honest, Joe dumped his and Frank neatly laid his out on the floor and bed. Then they were off to a fast food restaurant.

By five o'clock they were back at the house. The sun was low in the sky and the air was cooling. Frank and Joe carried their sodas, hamburgers, and fries to the boat and climbed aboard. They had decided on a quick trip, just long enough for each brother to drive the boat and become familiar with the controls. They also spent a little time sitting back relaxing, enjoying the river and their food.

Frank couldn't pass up the opportunity to text the girls and check on them. He sent a picture of the river and said he and Joe wished the girls were there with them, enjoying the boat ride.

Nancy called immediately, "Way to make Vanessa and me jealous. It looks gorgeous."

Vanessa's voice came over the line, "Nancy and I have been talking, we've decided we're taking Friday afternoon off and driving down to Healy to join you guys. You're paid through Saturday, right?"

"We are," Frank said and a smile broke across his face. He saw an identical smile on Joe's mouth. "Joe and I would love for you girls to join us. The house is beautiful. You'll love it."

"Then it's a deal," Vanessa said. "Nancy and I will see you guys Friday night."

Joe leaned closer to Frank and his phone. "We'll plan a special dinner and a long boat ride."

"We can roast marshmallows around the fire pit afterwards," Frank added.

"It sounds lovely," Nancy said. "Vanessa and I can't wait for Friday."

Joe reminded everyone, "We have Vanessa to thank for this place. If she didn't know Ms. Bentley Frank and I wouldn't be here."

"Definitely," Frank said. "Vanessa, next time you talk to Ms. Bentley, thank her again for letting us have this place at such a good price."

"I will make sure to do that," Vanessa promised.

"I hate to break this up," Joe said, "but Frank and I need to get back to the house. We still have some investigating to do tonight."

"Tonight?" Vanessa said and Joe heard the tension in her voice.

"Yes, tonight," he said. "But its easy stuff. Just poking around down by the docks."

If Vanessa sensed he wasn't telling the whole truth, she didn't say.

Frank cut in, "Nancy, any news on our guy in the truck?"

"No, it's been business as usual around here," Nancy told him. "No strange vehicles in the alley and no sightings of strange men."

"That depends on your definition of strange," Vanessa said and everyone laughed.

The laughter broke the subtle tension that had built since the mention of investigating. Frank and Joe expressed their love and longing for their distant fiancées and received the same expressions in return. It was a good note to end the phone call on.

The sun had edged closer to the horizon and the temperature had dropped a few more degrees. Night was coming on fast. Time to get back to the pier.

Fifteen minutes later, Frank nosed the boat alongside the pier and Joe threw the boat's rope up and around the mooring. Frank cut the engine and removed the key. The trip had gone smoothly. Both brothers now felt comfortable with the boat and its controls. It even had a GPS system which Joe figured would help them locate Nicholson's property. Technology was a wonderful thing.

"So, we're hitting the container graveyard first," Frank said as the brothers walked through the backyard and toward the house.

"That's the plan," Joe confirmed. "I want to see if we can scare up a few hobos. I'd like to see what they have to say about Nicholson and why he's so protective of that graveyard."

"Sounds like a good plan," Frank said. "We'll freshened up and then hit the road." Frank opened the French doors that led from the patio and into the house.

Joe entered the house, turned to his brother, and said, "I can be ready in ten minutes. How 'bout you?"

"Ten minutes works for me."

Joe saw the excitement in Frank's eyes. They were on the same wavelength, both itching to investigate that container graveyard.

"See you in ten then," Joe said. "Bring your Beretta and ammo. No telling what we'll run into down there."

Frank chuckled. "Way ahead of you. But thanks for the reminder, bro."

* * *

 _A/N: I know I've been sort of MIA and I apologize for that. Life issues and too much stress is all I'm going to say. On a happier note, I appreciate all the reviews readers have left and it's always nice to see people favorite or follow this story. Thanks! This chapter set things up for the action that's to come. I'll try to post quicker._


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Frank steered his SUV off the main road and down a narrow dirt path. He wasn't sure it was meant for vehicles. Actually, he was pretty sure a vehicle had not been on the road in a long time. It looked more like a walking trail.

"You're good," Joe assured him from the passenger's seat. "Park over here by these bushes."

Frank squinted in the direction Joe indicated, but couldn't see much beyond his SUV's headlights. The night was dark and foreboding. Frank turned the steering wheel and his headlights illuminated the bushes.

"According to my phone," Joe said, "we're about a fourth of a mile from the graveyard."

Frank parked a few feet from the bushes and killed the engine. He reached up and switched the dome light off. It may have been a useless gesture. The SUV's headlights had certainly announced their arrival, but to Frank's mind, the dome light said they were there to stay. Without the dome light, anyone who had seen the headlights might think the vehicle had just been going down the main road.

Joe got out and quietly shut his door. He patted the Beretta, tucked in a shoulder holster, beneath his windbreaker. Yep, it was there, nestled snug and tight against his side.

Frank shut his door and the brothers gravitated to the front of the SUV. They stood between the bushes and the ticking engine. The moon was rising, throwing a wedge of light across the land.

"I'll lead the way," Joe said in a low voice.

Frank gave a curt nod and said, "Is this the way you came when you ran into the armed guards, Deke and Travis?"

"No, I'm winging it tonight. We're heading east." Joe pointed in the general direction he intended to go. "I know the graveyard's over there somewhere. We'll walk until we run into something."

Frank peered in the direction Joe had indicated and thought he saw a low glow. "I think there's a campfire over there."

Joe squinted and scanned the horizon. He saw the glow, too, and grinned. "Good eyes, bro. We'll aim for that." It was nice to have a visual landmark as a guide.

Joe started walking along the narrow dirt road or what he had perceived as a dirt road. It dwindled to nothing after only a few yards and the brothers were forced to bushwhack their way through tall weeds and thickets. Thorns snagged their jeans and jackets and slowed them down. An occasional thorn punctured the skin, producing pain and a curse uttered quietly, but scathingly, beneath the breath.

The element of surprise – if they'd ever had it – was lost. Their approach definitely was not quiet or stealthy. Joe wasn't overly concerned. The purpose of his and Frank's visit wasn't to surprise the inhabitants of the graveyard. This was intended as a friendly visit. Joe wanted information and hoped the inhabitants were willing to talk.

Twenty minutes later the brothers were hunched behind a tree. The glow of a small campfire could clearly be seen beyond a semi-circle of shipping containers.

Joe surveyed the immediate area and then turned to Frank. "You ready to go in, bro?"

Frank scanned the area, as a double check, and said, "Yeah, let's do it." His right hand dropped to the Beretta holstered on his waist.

The brothers stepped out of the shelter of the tree and cautiously approached the campfire. They maneuvered past a shipping container and around some bushes. Joe's hand was on the butt of his Beretta as the brothers neared their destination. Joe looked at Frank and then nodded at the campfire. Frank saw the same scene Joe did. Ten scruffy men gathered round a flickering fire. Some men sat on their haunches. Some were eating. Others were drinking from bottles in paper bags. But all instantly turned when Joe and Frank materialized out of the darkness.

Ten sets of suspicious eyes stared at Joe and Frank. The men who had been eating placed their food on the ground, grabbed a stick, and slowly rose. Were they ready to attack or bolt? Indecision hold them motionless for the moment. Hobos who'd been drinking stood perfectly still, their eyes asking questions. The glow from the fire lit their bearded faces and ragged clothes.

A tall black man stepped forward. Joe figured him for the leader of the pack and former military. No mistaking that. The way he carried himself, straight and purposeful, with a no holds barred mentality.

"Can I help you, fellas," the man asked not unpleasantly.

Frank hung back, a step or two behind Joe, his hand on his Beretta.

Joe lifted his hands to show he meant no harm. "Just here to ask a few questions."

The black man cocked his head and frowned. "Deke send you?"

Interesting question, Joe thought and gave a vague answer. "Not exactly." He slowly lowered his arms. It looked like everybody was going to play nice, at least, for the time being.

"If Deke didn't send you, how you come to be here?" The black man was still frowning, the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes were long and deep.

"I met Deke a few days ago," Joe said. "He sort of introduced me to this .. this place. I met Kyle Nicholson that same day."

The black man studied Joe and Frank for a second then swiveled his head and nodded at a man with a thick gray beard. The bearded man returned the nod, an acknowledgement of an order received, and turned to the hobos gathered around the fire. A wave of his hand sent the small group scurrying quietly into the night. Those who had been eating made sure to scoop their food off the ground.

The black man took a step toward Joe. "I'm Colonel Charles. And who might you be, boy?"

Joe knew the man was not and had never been a Colonel. Maybe a First Sergeant, but certainly not an officer. This guy had been in the thick of things and had worked with soldiers. He had most likely supervised them. Had shaped and molded them, just like he seemed to have done with the hobos. The man was a natural leader.

"Joe Hardy." Joe jerked his head in Frank's direction. "My brother, Frank."

"And why exactly are you two nosing around here at night?" The Colonel's voice had taken on a menacing tone.

Joe found himself on the defense. Colonel Charles was asking the questions. Pointed questions. This was supposed to be the other way around. Joe was supposed to be asking the questions.

Joe gave another vague answer. "My brother and I are new to these parts. We've heard some talk about how things work here at the docks."

Colonel Charles held Joe's steady gaze for a second and then his coal black eyes light up. "Ya'all are new, huh? Deke just hired you?"

One corner of Joe's mouth lifted in a slight grin. "Yeah, that's about right." It wasn't anywhere near _about right_ , but the Colonel didn't need to know that. What was important was the Colonel's assumption that Joe and Frank might work for Deke.

 _Deke send you?_ Joe inwardly smiled. Deke had a connection to this place and, if he did, then it followed that Nicholson did.

The bearded man spoke for the first time. His face was lined and tanned like old shoe leather. He was lean, but Joe detected a muscular physique beneath the frayed clothing. Muscles earned through hard physical labor, Joe surmised.

"You boys, need to take your asses back to Deke." The man shot Joe and Frank a disgusted glare. Then he spun, spit into the fire, and disappeared into the night.

The Colonel watched the man go. "He don't like strangers." The Colonel faced Joe. "What's it you're after, boy?"

Frank stepped forward. Tonight's brief conversation had led him to a theory and he wanted to test it. "Like my brother said, Deke introduced us to this place a few days ago. We know how it works."

Colonel Charles's gleamed in the dim light of the fire. "So, you know about the jobs."

Joe looked at his brother. Frank was on to something. Joe wasn't sure what, but he would play along. He turned back to the Colonel. "Yeah, we know about those."

"That's why we're here," Frank added.

The Colonel rubbed his bearded chin with a large rough hand. "A job, huh? What kind of job we talking 'bout?"

Frank's dark brow lowered and his jaw hardened. "I think you know the kind we mean."

The Colonel looked Frank over. Appraised him from head to toe. "You sure you know what you're asking me?"

Frank's head rotated like a tank turret looking for targets. He searched the surrounding bushes and trees and saw no movement. The others had apparently gone off to whatever hole or container they lived in. Frank's eyes came back to the Colonel and his voice was barely above a whisper, "If you mean murder, then yes, we know what we're asking."

Joe flinched. Frank's statement had caught him by surprise. Joe cast puzzled glances between Frank and the Colonel.

Colonel Charles's lips parted in a bright white smile. "Murder, huh? Well, um, yeah, you might know what you're talking about." He ran his hand over his beard again and scanned the bushes just as Frank had done.

Frank and Joe added their own eyes to the search. The brothers sensed the Colonel's unease. Apparently, this topic of conversation was private – as in very private. As in, it never happened.

Frank was anxious to move the conversation along and nail down details. His voice was hard and sharp, "Now that we all agree on the nature of the job, let's tell specifics. How much?"

The Colonel appeared to think it over and then said, "Ten thousand. Half before the job and half on completion."

Joe's blood ran cold. They were discussing a murder for hire. Damn. Not exactly what he'd expected to find when he came to the docks tonight. But with Nicholson and the unsolved murders attached to his name, this discovery shouldn't really surprise Joe. Actually, the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. The police wouldn't think to look here in the container graveyard for Dan Sagget's killer. Nobody here had a connection to Dan or, for that matter, Dolores Gage.

So, had Deke – via Nicholson's orders – hired Colonel Charles to kill Dan Sagget and Dolores Gage .. and seven years ago Nicholson's wife? Sure. Why not? Maybe there'd been a different Colonel Charles back then. But the Colonel wasn't that old, mid-forties at most, he could've been here seven years ago.

The Colonel and Frank were still talking. It wasn't going well. The Colonel was backing off what he'd said. He wasn't hundred percent convinced of Joe's and Frank's bad boy status. This was serious, criminal stuff they were talking about and the Colonel had no plans on going to jail. He and jail didn't mix, if you got his drift. Besides, Deke was the guy he did business with, not these two wonder boys he'd never seen before.

Joe wanted hard evidence he could give to Detective Ziegler. That meant he had to get the Colonel to accept his and Frank's offer of a job. In other words, the Colonel had to agree to commit murder for them.

An idea popped into Joe's head and he cut into the conversation, "We're wasting time here. Look, I'm going to be honest with you. Like you said, we're not from around here. We're from Chicago. Our client is a rich banker who's got a hot, young chick on the side that he wants to marry. Only one problem, he already has a wife."

The ghost of a smile curled the corners of the Colonel's mouth. "And he wants her out of the picture, permanently."

"You got it," Joe said. "And that's why we're here. Our client knows Nicholson. Nicholson told him about this place .. about you. Our client sent us here to work out a deal. We're doing this under the radar. Off the books. Nicholson doesn't even know we're here. The fewer people who know, the better. Right?"

The Colonel visibly relaxed and let out a soft chuckle. "In that, you are most certainly right, son. The fewer people who know, always the better."

They had him, Joe thought. The Colonel was ready to talk money and details.

Ten minutes later the brothers were on their way back to Frank's SUV. They weren't exactly sure where it was. Joe hoped they wouldn't be wandering around all night trying to find it. He and Frank pushed through a tangle of weeds and thorny shrubs. Joe opened his mouth to complain about the thorns when he heard the whisper of movement in the trees behind him. His head snapped round in the direction of the sound and his gun was up and aimed. Frank's was, too.

The brothers stood side by side, waiting and listening, their eyes sweeping the immediate area. Slivers of moonlight filtered through the trees, illuminating small patches of woods and shrubs.

A rustle of leaves drew the brothers' attention and they pivoted to the left.

"Who's there?" Frank called out. He held his gun in a firm two-handed grip and his eyes bore into the darkness.

A figure emerged from the shrubs with his hands up. "Don't shoot. I mean you no harm."

It was the man with the gray beard. The knife in his hand didn't exactly square with the _I mean you no harm_ statement.

Joe's gaze darted between the man and the shrubs and trees behind him. Others could be hidden back there. "You alone?" Joe asked.

The man nodded. "I'm alone. The Colonel doesn't know I'm here and I'd like to keep it that way."

Joe and Frank traded looks. Frank's eyes said he believed the man was alone.

Joe looked back at the man. He still had his hands up. The blade of the big hunting knife glinted in the moonlight.

"Okay," Joe said, "you can lowered your hands."

The man lowered his hands and Joe and Frank lowered their guns. The three men stood there staring at each other for a long moment.

Then Frank said, "Why'd you followed us?"

"I heard everything you said to the Colonel back there and I'm not going to let it happen again."

Joe's brow furrowed. "Let what happen again?"

A pained expression flickered across the man's face. "The murders."

Joe and Frank traded looks again. The question in their eyes was, should they tell this guy the truth? That their murder for hire was just an act. No one was really going to get killed.

Before they could decide, the man said, "I don't think you two are who you say you are and I don't think the Colonel bought your act either."

The furrow on Joe's brow deepened. "What makes you say that?"

The man snorted. "Been around the Colonel a long time. I know that man inside and out. I know his good side and his bad. You live like we do – watching each other's back, taking care of each other when they're sick, sharing food and stuff – you get to know people. I mean really know people."

"Okay," Joe said. "So, who do you think we are?"

The man studied the brothers as he considered his answer. "Undercover cops."

Joe smiled. The man wasn't far off.

Frank said, "What makes you think we're cops?"

"You act like cops," the man asserted. "You can't hide the training."

"Okay, fair enough," Joe said. "Now tell us why you're here. You mentioned murders. You mean the murders for hire?"

For the first time the man appeared uncertain. He glanced around before saying, "Those and the others."

"The others?" Joe's brow rose in question.

"Yeah, the others, the hobos."

"Explain," Frank said.

The three men unconsciously came together in a huddle as the bearded man told his story.

The container graveyard offered a ready supply of down-on-their luck men. Some of them were willing to do anything for money and ten thousand dollars was a lot of money. The bearded man suspected the Colonel kept most of the money, but even a few thousand bucks was a ton of cash to the indigents living here.

The bearded man didn't agree with killing. He'd seen enough of that during his time as a Marine in Iraq. But he knew other men couldn't get the killing out of their blood. The war had come home with them and those were the ones the Colonel approached.

Yes, the bearded man had sat back and said nothing. Therefore, he was complicit in those murders and readily admitted it. But, you know what? He hadn't really believed the whole murder for hire scheme when it was first presented. Sure, he'd seen that Deke guy sniffing around and asking questions, but that hadn't bother him much. It was when Deke started bringing the Colonel booze and steaks that the bearded man started paying attention. Soon, Deke and the Colonel were best buds and the bearded man was pushed to the side. Fine by him, he didn't care for Deke, the Colonel could have him all to himself.

It was afterwards, when a hobo hired to do a job disappeared and never returned. The first time it happened it seemed natural. The bearded man figured if he'd killed someone he would take the money and run, too. Get the hell out of this place.

But the sequence repeated its' self. And another hobo disappeared. And another.

"How many murders for hire are we talking about?" Joe asked. It was clear he found this information disturbing.

The bearded man's troubled eyes sought Joe's. "Four? Maybe five."

Helluva a lot of murders, Joe thought. "You got any dates for these murders? Like did they take place a month ago or years ago?" Joe was thinking about Linda Nicholson's murder seven years ago. Had a hobo been hired to kill her and dump her in the river?

The bearded man shook his head and held out his arms in a helpless gesture. "Sorry. Got no way to tell dates out here. Best I can say is, some were years ago and some were recent."

Joe wondered if the man was intentionally being vague now. Joe didn't have time to sort that out. This conversation was now, officially, one for Detective Ziegler. The bearded man should be taken into custody, put in an interrogation room, and questioned into the wee hours of the morning. But none of that was going to happen tonight.

Frank spoke up, "The hobos that disappeared, what's your theory on what happened to them?"

The bearded man shifted from foot to foot and glanced over his shoulder. When his focus came back to Frank, he said, "I think the Colonel killed 'em." The man sucked in a breath and heaved it out. "And that's not all. Others have started to disappear. Deke's been coming around lately, at night, asking if anyone wants to work. A lot of us want to work, you know. We need the money. The guys who've gone away with Deke haven't come back. I'm worried about them."

Joe said, "Maybe Deke has set them up in an apartment in town. If they're living good and working hard maybe they haven't had time to come back here. Maybe Deke told them _not_ to come back here."

In reality, Joe guessed the hobos had been asked to perform illegal jobs on the docks. Something that was done at night. Something Nicholson didn't want his regular workers doing and, if that was the case, then the hobos would be barred from seeing their mates. Nicholson and Deke couldn't have the hobos telling others what was going on at the docks.

Joe blew out a shallow breath. Seemed this dock held a lot of secrets.

The bearded man shook his head woefully. "I don't know. Some of them that's disappeared has friends here. Real good friends. One of 'em, Big Tom, has a friend here who's got a bad lung infection. Tom took the job so he could earn money so he could take his friend to a doctor. Ain't no way Big Tom wouldn't come back for his friend. Them two's been buddies for years. They were in the Army together. Served in Iraq just like me."

Frank fixed the man with a hard glare. "How many men are we talking about and how long ago did the last ones disappear?"

The man scratched his neck beneath his beard and thought about it. "Like I said, hard to tell dates out here. We live off the grid, you know. No calendars or cell phones." One shoulder lifted in half a shrug. "I'd say Big Tom left about a week ago. A few weeks before that another guy left with Deke." He looked at Joe and Frank and sorrow shone in his eyes. "Sorry I can't be more precise than that."

"That's okay," Joe said. "You've been real helpful. My brother and I are going to investigate these disappearances."

The man looked relieved and like he might cry. "That's great. Thanks."

# # # #

Joe and Frank were back in the SUV, back on the road and headed for the rental house. And the boat.

Frank had one hand on the steering wheel and one hand skimming the stubble on his chin. "Helluva night so far," he said.

"You got that right." Joe opened a bottle of water and took a sip.

Joe stared out the windshield and thought about what they'd learned tonight. Murder for hire. Missing hobos. Hobos that went missing around the same time as Dan Sagget's and Dolores Gage's murders. But still, to Joe, things didn't quite add up.

He shifted in his seat and adjusted his seatbelt. "No matter how I look at it, I can't see a hobo attacking Dan Sagget and Dolores Gage. Those murders come across as personal to me. The attacker had it in for them specifically. He went at them with an ax. It doesn't get much more personal than that."

Frank was quiet for a moment. "Let's think this through. Nicholson orders Deke to hire a hobo to do the killing. Deke goes to the graveyard at night and meets the Colonel. The Colonel selects a willing hobo and delivers him into Deke's hands. Deke gives the killer an ax. It's an easy weapon to purchase. No registration required. No ammo needed. No particular skill or training required. Heck, I wouldn't be surprised if axes are part of the dock inventory. All Deke has to do is take one off a shelf in a storage room. There's a lot of pros for the murder weapon being an ax _and_ the killer being a hobo."

Joe mulled it over. "I hadn't looked at it that way before. You might be on to something. But still, why so many blows? Sagget received something like twenty blows to the head and Dolores Gage got around ten."

One dark eyebrow rose and Frank threw his brother a sidelong glance. "To make sure the victim was dead? One blow wasn't enough. The killer didn't get paid if the victim wasn't dead. He wanted to make damn sure the victim was dead."

"Yeah." Joe saw the logic in what Frank said. "And then, it seems, the killer winds up dead."

"The next question is, who killed the killer? The Colonel or Deke?" Frank asked.

"My money's on the Colonel," Joe said. "On Deke's orders of course. Which, if we follow the chain of command, leads us straight back to Nicholson. Damn, I have to call Ziegler first thing in the morning and tell him about our conversation with Mr. Beard. I'm sure Ziegler will want to question Beard himself."

"I'm sure he will. I hope he can find him." Concern laced Frank's voice. "I wouldn't be surprised if Beard goes missing, either on his own or, by the Colonel's hand. The Colonel probably has eyes and ears all over that graveyard. Someone's probably already reported in and told the Colonel about our conversation with Beard."

Joe grimaced as he watched the dark outlines of trees flash by outside his window. "That thought occurred to me, too. Beard's put himself in danger." Joe looked at his brother. "Maybe I should call Ziegler tonight. What do you think? Call tonight or wait until morning?"

Frank let out a frustrated sigh. "Realistically, there's not much Ziegler can do tonight. Not based on the conversations we had with Beard and the Colonel. It's all hearsay evidence. Our word against their's. We need some proof. It would be nice if we could prove those hobos were murdered and not just missing."

Joe drummed his fingers on his thigh. "We'd need a body to prove that."

"Yeah," Frank said. "A body. Where do you suppose the Colonel would bury the bodies?"

Joe scoffed. "Who says he buried them? He probably threw them in the river."

Frank shook his head. "Nah, bodies bloat and eventually surface. One of them would've been found by now."

"Hmm, you might be right." The wheels started spinning in Joe's head. "I almost hate to say this, but I think I know a place where the bodies could be."

"I'm all ears," Frank said.

"It's where we're going next. The white building on the river. The one with the propane tank." Joe frowned. "But what the hell does Nicholson need a propane tank for? Dead bodies don't need heat."

Frank's eyes widened as he turned his head to Joe. "Biology one-oh-one, bro. Heat speeds up decomposition."

Joe grimaced and swallowed his disgust. "Damn." A muscle in his check twitched. "Double damn."

Now Joe wasn't so sure he wanted to investigate that white building on the river. But – triple damn and a long shiver – he knew they had to.

* * *

 _A/N: Another heartfelt thank you to those who left a review. I try to PM you personally, too. If I missed you, I apologize._


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

They were in the boat, skimming across the glassy surface of the lake. It was a clear, cool night. Joe zipped up his jacket to ward off the chilly wind. Frank was at the controls. He'd programmed their destination into the onboard GPS system. Theoretically, it would guide them to the white building.

Joe still had misgivings about this visit. A lone building on property outside the city limits. None of that sounded good. Especially not after what Joe and Frank had learned tonight at the hobo camp.

Frank checked the GPS system and said, "Almost there. GPS says five more minutes."

Joe's upper lip lifted in distaste. "Great. Can't wait."

Frank eyed his brother for a second. He knew Joe wasn't excited about this visit. They'd discussed it while transferring their gear from the SUV to the boat. "C'mon. Look at the bright side, Joe. If we find bodies then we have solid evidence that Nicholson and Deke conspired to commit murder."

Joe looked out across the river and the shore speeding by. Not another boat in sight. The lake was theirs and, except for the hum of their boat's engine, the lake was tranquil. Joe wished the night could stay this way – tranquil – the moon and stars reflecting off the inky black surface of the water. Just froze this moment in time and he'd be happy.

He shook his head sadly and looked at his brother beside him. "You know we're probably going to have to commit illegal trespassing to get in that building."

"Yep." Frank kept his eyes on the lake. The brothers had discussed this, too.

"I have Ziegler on my side," Joe said. "He's agreed to share information with me. However, I don't think breaking and entering is going to endear me to him."

"Probably won't," Frank admitted. "But let's not worry about that right now. Let's focus on getting there and investigating. For all we know the building will turn out to be empty."

A doubtful frown creased Joe's forehead. "What are the chances of that?"

Frank shrugged. "Won't know until we get there, will we?"

Joe stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jacket. "Guess not. Glad you have a positive attitude about this trip."

"Someone has to." Frank elbowed Joe in the arm. "Hey, we're making progress. We got some good information tonight. This white building might prove to be the icing on the cake."

"True, true." Joe watched trees on the far shore speed by. They black outlines against a dark gray sky. He had to change his mind set. Get out of the negative funk he'd fallen into. Be positive like Frank, he told himself.

Joe smiled and nudged Frank in the shoulder. "You're right, bro. We made progress tonight and this building might contain the evidence we need to solve this case."

Frank smiled. "That's what I like to hear. You being positive and upbeat. You had me worried there for a minute."

"Yeah, had myself worried, too." Joe checked the GPS screen and jutted his chin at it. "We're a mile out."

Frank killed the boat's engine and lights. "Yep. Time to grab the paddles and night vision goggles."

Joe reached behind him, scooped two paddles off the floor, and handed one to Frank. They had discussed this earlier, the need to approach the shore quietly. No engine, no lights.

Frank sat on the left side of the boat and Joe sat on the right. The boat's momentum carried it forward for a minute or two. The brothers' used that time to slip on their goggles. The world was suddenly lit in green.

Frank lifted his paddle. "Ready?"

"Ready," Joe answered.

Joe dipped his paddle in the river and the brothers began paddling. Slow, steady strokes. Five minutes later, a pier came into view. The brothers let the boat drift toward it with only the occasional paddle stroke to guide it. A minute later, the side of the boat gently bumped against the pier. Joe jumped atop the pier and tied up the boat. Frank joined him seconds later.

The brothers had worked up a slight sweat from all that paddling. Joe crouched on the pier and unzipped his jacket. An owl hooted across the lake. Frank came and crouched beside Joe. Neither man said a word. Instinctively, their attention was drawn to the white building. It sat on the shore in a clearing. A bare bulb, attached to a pole, threw a circle of light on one side of the building. Joe could see a door there.

Joe touched Frank's arm and pointed. "Entry point."

"The light concerns me," Frank whispered. "You only need light if you plan on visiting at night."

"I was thinking the same thing." Joe scanned the lake. Still no one in sight. Still peaceful and tranquil.

Frank pointed. "I see a road .. or path. Could be the way a person arrives by vehicle."

"Yeah," Joe whispered. "Good news, we should be able to hear a vehicle or boat if either of those show up while we're here."

Frank didn't look so sure.

Joe scanned the building's roof line. "I don't see any surveillance devices. No cameras or motion sensors."

Frank also scanned the roof line. "You're right. Maybe this place isn't as important as we think."

"Maybe." Joe withdrew his gun. "Ready to check it out?"

"Yeah. Sure." Frank withdrew his gun and both men pushed to their feet.

Joe led the way. The brothers walked along the pier and onto the shore, scanning the trees and building the whole way. The smell of the river faded behind them as they moved closer to the building. They saw tire tracks in the dirt and got down on one knee for a closer look.

Both men lowered their night vision goggles and let them hang around their necks. They didn't need them now that they were within the circle of light.

Frank touched the dirt. It was loose. "These tracks aren't that old. Maybe a day or two."

Joe looked up and his gaze followed the path to where it ended at a padlocked gate in a chain-link fence.

Frank turned and saw the fence and gate. "Now we know the way a vehicle enters."

Joe pushed to his feet, his gun up and ready. "Let's get this show on the road. I'd like to avoid close encounters of the dangerous kind if possible."

Frank nodded and the brothers moved to the building and took up positions on opposite sides of the door.

Frank pressed his back against the wooden slats of the wall and said, "I'll stay here and watch for vehicles and boats while you check the other side of the building."

Joe nodded and peeled away. He did a quick sweep around the building, looking for alarms and monitoring devices, and found none. He did come upon the propane tank. A long pipe, wrapped in rubber foam, led from the tank to the building. Seemed Nicholson was serious about the heat.

Joe returned to the door and reported his discovery, and the lack of alarms. He added, "Nice isolated property like this would be a good place to stash bodies or grow marijuana." In a way, he was hoping for the marijuana scenario.

Frank said, "You ready to check the door? It might be wired."

"Right," Joe muttered and examined the door. He didn't see anything. No wires. No alarm of any kind. He put a hand on the doorknob and waited. Nothing happened, so he twisted the knob and it turned. "That's weird," Joe said more to himself than to his brother and pushed the door wide open.

Frank heard the creak of the door and turned his head. "How's you get it open so fast?"

"It wasn't locked," Joe said, suspicion and surprise showing in his eyes.

Frank swallowed and said, "Maybe Nicholson or Deke forgot to lock it last time they were here."

"Maybe. But I figured them for more security conscious than this. Nicholson's got his docks locked down tight as a drum." Already Joe didn't like the feel of this place. A faint smell wafted from inside. What was that?

Frank's voice startled Joe. "Maybe I was right when I said this place might be empty. If it's empty, they wouldn't need locks or alarms."

Joe looked inside, beyond the door, and couldn't see a thing. It was dark as a cave. "I'm going in," he told Frank.

Frank pushed off the wall. "Right behind you."

Joe took a step forward and a low wattage light snapped on. He froze in place, his eyes darting around the small interior. It was a mud room. There were coat hooks on the wall and a bench where a person could sit and remove muddy boots. Joe saw a screen door a few feet in front of him and a sign affixed to the center of the screen.

Joe stepped closer and read it out loud, " _Those who enter here never leave_." His face scrunched up like he's eaten something sour. "What the hell does that mean?"

"Nicholson's idea of a joke?" Frank said behind him. "If you're dead when you enter then you're certainly not leaving." Frank saw the tension in Joe's shoulders and the white knuckled grip he had on his gun. "Want to call it a night, Joe? Turn around and go home?"

Joe gave the suggestion some serious consideration. He inhaled deeply and wrinkled his nose. "Frank, do you smell that? That odor?"

Frank sniffed the air. "Yeah." He sniffed again. "Not sure what it is. It's too faint."

"Decomposition?" Joe asked, dreading Frank's answer.

"Could be. Can't say for sure." Frank let out a ragged breath. "The evidence we need might be behind that screen door. However, I advise extreme caution. We haven't found any locks on the outside of this building or on the door. That has all kinds of alarm bell going off inside my head. No locks outside means there could be booby traps inside."

"Booby traps?" Joe growled over his shoulder. That sounded like Nicholson. Lure someone in and then _Wham_!

"Just a thought," Frank said calmly. "Your call, Joe. We can go in or we can go home. I'm fine with either."

Joe thought it through. They'd come a long way and valuable evidence might lie beyond that screen door. They would never know if they left now. And would they ever get another chance to search this building?

Joe swallowed back his doubts and fears and aimed his gun at the screen door. "We're going in. Ready?"

Frank sucked in a breath. "Ready."

Joe opened the door and the brothers stepped through, guns in hand. Low wattage ceiling lights snapped on. The brothers were in a long, narrow hallway. Straight ahead the hallway opened into a room. That room was dark so, whatever was in it, was hidden from view.

"Warm in here," Joe said over his shoulder to Frank.

Frank tipped his head at an alcove in the wall. "Water heater and pipes."

Joe and Frank tracked the pipes up the wall and along the ceiling. The pipes went through the wall and, presumably, into another room.

"Very curious," Joe said. "Let's keep moving."

Joe took three steps forward, hesitated a second, and then stepped into the room. It stayed dark. No automatic lights here. Joe ran his hand over the wall near the doorframe, found a light switch, and flipped it.

Frank stepped into the brightly lit room and the men stared at three large cages filled with squirming rats. The light seemed to have aroused them. They started squeaking and sniffing the air. Butterfly nets – or what looked like butterfly nets – hung on the sides of the cages and bags of rat food sat on a metal table.

Joe turned to Frank. "Rats? What would Nicholson need rats for?"

Frank shook his head, a grim set to his mouth. "Got no idea, bro. The way they're squirming and crying, it looks like they think they're going to get fed."

Joe had noticed that, too. "They must be conditioned to being fed when the light comes on."

"I wonder how often someone stops by to feed them?" Frank's remark was made off-handedly.

"Let's hope who ever feeds them has already been here today." Joe hoped that was true.

The smell of rat feces and urine saturated the room, but there was another odor. The odor Joe had smelled earlier and it was coming from somewhere else in the building. He looked around. The room he and Frank were in was approximately ten feet by ten feet. On the left wall was a door and, interestingly, on the right wall was a door.

Joe jerked his chin to the right. "Let's find out what's behind door number one."

Frank nodded at Joe. "Lead the way."

Joe moved to the door, thinking, this one might be locked. He placed his hand on the knob and it turned as easily as the others. He peered, straight ahead, into a large, dimly lit room. The air was warm and humid. Joe looked up and realized why. The water pipes on the ceiling emitted a fine mist.

"See anything interesting?" Frank asked.

Joe moved further into the room and Frank stepped in behind him.

"Oh hell," Frank hissed.

The same words were on Joe's lips. A huge plant filled terrarium sat on a waist high, thick timbered platform. The terrarium stretched the entire length of the wall. Joe estimated the terrarium to be twelve feet long, four feet wide, and four feet high and homemade. The glass was extra thick like the lumber. Definitely needed that extra thick glass because the creature inside the terrarium was known to be strong and heavy.

That odor, the one that had puzzled Joe, filled the room. The air was thick with it. Snake dung.

"A Burmese python," Frank said.

Joe gave him a look. "You sure?"

"Positive. Lots of people keep them as pets."

Joe sneered at the terrarium and the snake inside it. Joe hated snakes. Absolutely hated them.

"Nicholson has a pet python?" Joe didn't quite buy the idea. But then, what not? Nicholson was rich. He could have whatever kind of pet he wanted. An exotic pet like a python probably appealed to Nicholson's ego. Look, he'd built a whole building dedicated to this one snake and its maintenance.

The snake was loosely coiled in a corner, but Joe saw it coming to life. The snake's head – big as Joe's hand – rose off the moist soil and a forked tongue slid out of its huge mouth.

"Looks like we woke it," Joe said. He hoped to hell that extra thick glass held.

The snake slowly uncoiled and slithered across the dirt and to the glass. It peered at the brothers as it moved, its tongue flickering and tasting the air.

"Most be fifteen feet long," Frank said. "A full grown Burmese python can get to be twenty or twenty-five feet and weight up to two hundred pounds."

Joe shot him a look. "And you know this because?"

Frank shrugged. "General knowledge."

Joe rolled his eyes. Lots of odd stuff was general knowledge to his brother. Sometimes that came in handy.

"Well, this explains the rats," Frank stated matter-of-factly. "Food for the snake."

Joe noticed that he and Frank had relaxed a little. The snake was contained and the brothers were in no immediate danger. A false sense of security? Joe wondered, how strong that enclosure was. He got closer and examined it. It looked sturdy. Built to withstand a big, heavy snake pounding on it. Well, at least, Joe sincerely hoped so.

It was warm in the room and humid. Joe wiped sweat off his brow and a thought tumbled into his mind. What about the sign on the screen door? _Those who enter here never leave._

Was that a joke?

Joe pulled on an ear. It didn't feel like a joke. It felt like a warning.

Joe turned to his brother, "Frank, we .."

Frank was pointing at a far corner of the ceiling. "Camera."

Joe looked up and spotted the red dot of light. The mist had done a good job of obscuring it _and_ the black box it was attached to.

"Damn," Joe growled. "We need to get out of here."

Frank backed out of the room and Joe followed suit. He flipped the light switch off, shut the door, and stepped into the room with the three cages of rats. There had to be thirty or forty rats. They would feed the python for months .. or years. Snakes didn't eat that often, did they?

The rats were squeaking again, begging for food. Joe watched as the furry rodents crawled over and under each other, trying to get to a slot in the cage. Must be the food slots, Joe thought.

Frank stood at the door on the opposite side of the room. The door they had not yet opened.

Frank laid a hand on the doorknob. "Want a quick peek behind door number two?"

Joe glanced at Frank and then at the squirming rats. Joe's brow knotted in a puzzled frown and he looked at Frank. "Three cages of rats. Does that seem like a lot of rats for one snake?"

Joe watched as understanding dawned on Frank and his jaw dropped slightly. Frank glanced at the door where his hand still rested on the knob. He pulled his hand away and looked at Joe. "You think there's another python behind this door?"

The line of Joe's jaw hardened. "Only one way to know for sure. Open the door."

Frank grabbed the knob and twisted. The door opened just like all the others. The room was dark and warm. Not humid though. Frank felt for a light switch and found it. The room came to life under the orange glow of heat lamps.

Frank stepped inside and paused. He turned to Joe behind him. "Did you hear that click?"

"Yeah." Joe looked up and searched the corners of the ceiling for a camera. He didn't find one. Then he looked down at the floor. "You're standing on a metal plate, bro."

Frank looked at his boots. Sure enough, he was standing on a metal plate embedded in the wooden floor. What the hell was that for? He stepped off gingerly and both brothers held their breath, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did.

Joe stepped over the plate and into the room. He saw snake-handling sticks hanging on the wall. Great, he thought sarcastically. This room was a twin to the python's room. However, instead of one big terrarium and one big snake, this room had terrariums along two walls. The terrariums were around the 40 or 50 gallon size. That meant good sized snakes inside.

Great, Joe thought again. Sarcastically again, of course. Then he eyeballed the snakes and another _great_ exploded in his mind. The snakes in this room possessed dynamic patterns and triangular heads with black flickering tongues. This crew was the bad boys on the block. They were all venomous. A shiver shuddered down Joe's back. God, he hated snakes.

The snakes' cat like eyes tracked him and Frank as they approached. Yep, the snakes were awake and slithering. The lights coming on probably meant feeding time for these guys.

Joe walked behind Frank as they peered into each terrarium. In total, there were ten. The enclosures had hidey holes for their inhabitants, watering dishes, rocks, branches, and sand or dirt. Nicholson had set them up nicely.

The only good thing Joe saw was that four of the terrariums were empty.

Frank named off the species as the brothers walked along. "Timber rattlesnake. Looks like an adult. Northern Copperhead. The yellow tipped tail means it's a juvenile. Another timber rattler. Whoa. Look at that. An Eastern Massasauga."

Joe jerked his head at the unfamiliar word. "A what?"

"A massasauga. Another type of rattlesnake," Frank said way too calmly for Joe's liking. "They're an endangered species. Owning one is a Federal crime."

Well, well, well, so Nicholson had committed a crime. Unfortunately, there was nothing Joe could do about it. He peered at the two foot long, black and gray snake. It appeared vicious and ready to strike. Joe suddenly realized his finger had slipped to his trigger. The heat was getting to him and all these snakes had him on edge. Not to mention this building, the metal plate in the floor, and the camera in the python room. Oh, and the sign on the door.

 _Those who enter here never leave._

Try and stop me, Joe thought. And you know what? He'd seen enough. There were no dead bodies here, just a bunch of snakes and rats. All owned by a rat, Kyle Nicholson.

"We've seen enough," Joe said. "There's nothing here. Let's boogie."

Then the lights went out and the room was plunged into complete darkness. The whole building was pitch black.

Joe froze and listened. "Frank?"

"Right beside you."

Frank squeezed Joe's shoulder. It was a welcome comfort.

Joe reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a flashlight, and flicked it on. He pointed it in the direction of the door and the brothers started toward it, Joe in the lead. He got to the door and listened. The rats were quiet. Not a creature was stirring.

Joe swept the beam of his flashlight over the rat room. Nothing looked different. So far, so good. All Joe and Frank had to do was get through the rat room, down the hall, past the screen door, and through the mud room. Forty feet and they would be out of this God forsaken building.

"All clear," Joe said and moved into the room.

Frank followed in Joe's footsteps, his gun up and ready. The rats skittered in their cages as the men crept past. Joe's mouth was dry and his heart hammered in his chest. Thirty feet to go.

Joe's mind raced as he turned into the hall. Why had the lights gone off? Had he and Frank triggered a silent alarm? That metal plate? Or the camera in the python room?

Joe's eyes were fixed on the screen door. Their gateway to freedom. Joe was halfway down the hall when something black rose up in the mud room. He stopped and Frank collided into him.

Joe shined his flashlight on the screen door which was six feet in front of him. Nothing there. Had he imagined the shape?

"Thought I saw something in the mud room," Joe told Frank and then slowly moved forward. Joe's skin crawled. He was positive he'd seen something on the other side of that door.

Then he heard it. Frank heard it, too, and put a restraining hand on Joe's shoulder. The brothers froze in place and listened. There was no mistaking that distinctive sound. The low, hissing buzz of a rattle. The hairs on the back of Joe's neck stood on end.

Here was why no one left the building. You had to get past a venomous snake. Joe wondered how many people had managed that. But then, how many people had entered this building uninvited?

Frank had his flashlight out and was shining it at the screen door. Cautiously and hesitantly, he stepped forward.

"What are you doing?" Joe hissed.

Frank turned to Joe. "Trying to lay eyes on the snake so I can shoot it."

"Oh. Yeah. Good idea." Proceed, Joe thought. I'm right behind you.

Frank got within a foot of the door, shined his flashlight into the mud room, and aimed his gun. Something hissed and struck the screen hard. Joe jumped back a good foot and Frank did, too.

"Damn!" Joe hissed and his eyes widened.

A five foot long Timber Rattlesnake was disentangling its fangs from the screen. It twisted its head to work the fangs loose. Those fangs were long and sharp and Joe thought he saw a drop of venom drip from one. The snake dropped to the mud room floor, leaving two jagged gashes in the screen.

"Oh, no," Frank said and Joe heard the dread in his tone.

"What?" Joe was trying to get his breathing under control.

Frank was on his toes, playing the beam of his flashlight around the mud room, and he looked worried. "I count four timber rattlers in there."

Four of them? Wait, Joe thought, there had been four empty terrariums in the venomous room. Well, now he knew where those snakes were.

Frank turned to Joe. "One of us should hold the flashlight and one of us should do the shooting."

Joe had been to sniper school in the Army. He was the better shot. Both he and Frank knew it. "I'll do the shooting," Joe said.

Frank stepped aside and positioned his flashlight so the beam covered most of the mud room.

Joe pocketed his flashlight and stood in front of the screen door and stared into the room. He spied an opening beneath the bench. So, that was how the snakes were released into the room. Joe wondered when that had happened. Shortly after he and Frank entered the hall? Or when they entered the venomous room and Frank stepped on that metal plate? When didn't really matter. The important thing was for Joe and Frank to get out of the building.

Joe grimaced at the sight before him, four rattlesnakes slithering rapidly across the tile floor. They seemed angry. The snakes had been thrust into a new environment. They needed to check it out and stake a claim. As if to confirm that theory, one snake lunged at another. The lunge was lightning fast, just a sudden, violent blur.

Joe nearly jumped out of his skin. "Damn, they're fast."

Frank gritted his teeth. "Let's get this over with and get the hell out of here."

Joe saw sweat dotting his brother's hairline. Frank was as stressed as Joe was.

Frank wiped the sweat away with the back of his hand. "I have a feeling we tripped a silent alarm back there and someone's on their way here. I'd rather not be here when they arrive."

"That makes two of us," Joe assured him and turned his focus back to the snakes. He lifted his gun and aimed at one.

 _Bang!_ The noise was incredibly loud in the narrow hall.

Joe's aim was true. He'd hit the snake mid-body. Blood spewed from the wound as the snake thrashed and writhed, its body rising up in a big arch. Joe figured he'd only wounded the creature and shot it again. The second gunshot, and the contorted movements of the dying snake, send the other three slithering frantically around the room. Now, they were definitely agitated and looking for a way out. The mud room was a swarming mass of snakes.

Joe took a breath and concentrated on another snake. His gun tracked its body as it shimmied across the floor.

 _Bang!_ Another hit and Joe's ears rang.

"Good job," Frank said loudly. His ears were ringing, too. "Two more to go."

Yeah, but those last two snakes were in a frenzy and looking for something – anything – to attack. One lunged at the screen door and Joe jumped back like he'd been burned. These damn snakes were going to be the death of him yet. The snake's head protruded through the screen and it hissed and spit and thrashed viciously, trying to dislodge itself.

Joe fired. The bullet severed the snake's head from its body. The head fell on the hall floor near Joe's feet and he backed away. The body fell on the mud room floor.

One more snake to go, Joe thought. Gun smoke was heavy in the hall and the air reeked of gunpowder and dead snake.

Frank shone his flashlight in the mud room and Joe saw the last snake coiled in a corner, its head up and ready to strike. Joe's final shot ripped through the snake's throat and the head collapsed on the floor.

Joe collapsed against the wall. He felt like he'd run a marathon.

"C'mon," Frank urged and pulled open the screen door. The lights snapped on and he stopped short. Blood covered the floor. Slimy snake bodies lay in a tangled mess. Some were still twitching. He turned to his brother and said, "Watch your step." Then he sprinted across the room and out the exit door.

Joe followed suit and emerged a second later. He sucked in a breath of fresh air and was so damn happy to be outside again. Then he and Frank took off running, full tilt, to the pier.

# # # #

Frank tossed another log on the fire in the fire pit and a cloud of sparks exploded skyward. A trail of swirling smoke followed. Frank picked up his beer off the patio and sat in his deck chair.

Joe was all settled in his chair and feeling relaxed for the first time all night. The glow of the moon danced on the surface of the river. Joe could see the tiniest ripple of water. He thought he'd heard a fish leap out there somewhat. Yep, real peaceful here. Joe took a long pull of his beer.

He and Frank had returned to the rental house well over an hour ago. They'd unloaded the boat, stowed their gear, and headed down the road to a convenience store. The store had lived up to its name. It was _conveniently_ open late and _conveniently_ sold beer and prepackaged sandwiches. The sandwiches were long gone and, before long, the beer would be, too.

Joe knew that he and Frank needed this quiet moment to unwind. To rid themselves of the stress of the night.

As if he had read Joe's mind, Frank said, "One helluva night."

"You got that right. Have I ever told you I _hate_ snakes?"

Frank sipped his beer and grinned. "Maybe once or twice."

Frank was being kind. Joe had said it at least ten times. Five times during the boat ride back to the house and five times on the drive to the store.

"That camera in the python room has me worried," Frank said. "Nicholson might have us on video. The saving grace is the quality will be low res. It'll be next to impossible for him to tell who was in that building tonight."

"He won't recognize you," Joe scoffed. "He's never seen you before, but I'm pretty sure he could pick me out of a blurry, low res video."

"Maybe," Frank said. "So, we watch our backs. He doesn't know where we're staying and we try and keep it that way."

Joe's thoughts had run along the same line, but he knew Nicholson better than Frank did. Nicholson had deep hooks in this town and if he wanted to find Joe, Joe had no doubt he would eventually find him.

Eventually being the key word.

* * *

 _A/N: So sorry I didn't have time to response to the lovely reviews people left on the previous chapter. I've been wrestling with this chapter and it's been a real bear! Now, I know a lot of you said Joe and Frank shouldn't go to that white building, but you know, they had to. Right? :)_


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

It was eight-oh-five Monday morning. Deke was five minutes late getting to work. A rare occurrence. Usually, he was early. But this morning, he'd had business to handle. Specifically, checking on the asshole Marine in River Heights. Deke had had Travis fire him a two days ago, but Deke wanted to make sure the message had been received. Strange thing, the Marine wasn't answering his phone.

Deke opened his office door and stopped dead in his tracks. Travis was perched on the corner of Deke's desk. Travis stood and nodded a greeting at Deke.

Deke frowned as he entered his office and closed the door. Travis being here didn't bode well for a good start to the day. They usually didn't meet up until ten when they started their patrols. "Why are you here? Something up on the docks?" Deke asked.

"It's Nicholson and he's fit to be tied. He's got guys running all over the docks looking for you. I wanted to give you a heads up before someone else found you."

Deke was grateful for the warning. "Any idea what's got Nicholson all wound up this morning?"

Travis shook his head. "No idea, boss. I've only been here fifteen minutes myself. The second I stepped in the building two dockhands were in my face asking where you were, saying Nicholson wanted to see you, ASAP."

"Well, thanks for the heads up," Deke said. "I'll stop by his office now."

"Okay, um, call me if you need me." Travis departed quickly, closing the door behind him.

Deke scratched his head. What had Nicholson all fired up? From Travis's demeanor it didn't sound like it was anything good.

# # # #

Joe and Frank were seated in a booth in a diner having breakfast. It was one of those _mom and pop_ places where the food was greasy and there was plenty of it. Just the way Joe liked it. Frank wasn't as enamored, but he never refused a robust breakfast.

Frank took a careful sip of his piping hot coffee, swallowed, and said, "What's on our agenda for today?"

Joe forked eggs into his mouth and held up an index finger. He leaned to the side as he dug in his back jeans' pocket, withdrew a notepad, and laid it on the table. He swallowed the eggs, drank some orange juice, cleared his throat, and flipped the notepad open.

Frank was mildly entertained by Joe's antics.

"First on the list," Joe said, "is a meet and greet with Detective Ziegler. We'll tell him about Colonel Charles, Mr. Beard, and the shipping container graveyard."

"And the missing men," Frank added.

Joe drank more orange juice and nodded. "Those, too. And the murder for hire scheme. It's clear the Colonel, Deke, and Nicholson are involved in something. It might be murders, it might not be. I'll leave that to Ziegler to sort out. He's got the authority to investigate the hobos living in the graveyard and we don't."

Frank pushed his empty plate to the side. "What's next on the list?"

Joe eyed his notepad and then lifted his head. "After Ziegler, we head over to Wayne's. I need to let him know I'm back and that you're with me. You can meet him and Bulka at the same time." Joe smiled at the mention of the dog.

Frank smiled, too. He was excited about meeting the dog. Joe had talked quite a bit about her since rediscovering her in Healy. Frank, as a CID agent in the Army, had never directly worked with dogs. Occasionally, a dog and its handler were brought in for a case. The dog's handler interacted with the dog, not the CID agents. The dog sniffed around until it found whatever the agents were looking for – drugs, weapons, or a body. Once the item was found, the dog and its handler said good-bye. Frank privately envied Joe. Joe had worked side by side with dogs in Afghanistan.

"Then we're free for a while," Joe was saying. "Until tonight."

Frank cocked an eyebrow. "Another nighttime mission?"

"Yeah, we're going to take the boat out again. I'd like to do a little surveillance of the docks. See what – if anything – happens there at night."

Frank took this bit of information in with only a slight widening of the eyes. "We might need to do several nights of surveillance before we see anything."

"True. You okay with that? If we have to do nightly surveillances."

"I'm fine with it," Frank said. "I like the boat and the river. I don't mind spending time on either of them. Oh, and I have something to add to your list."

"Fire away," Joe said.

"I recommend we find a grocery store during our free time this afternoon. I'd like to have some supplies at the house. Coffee, bread, eggs, etcetera."

"Good idea. I'll pencil it in." Joe wrote on the notepad and smiled. "There. Grocery store penciled in for after lunch."

Frank grinned and shook his head at his brother's mockery.

Joe drained his coffee cup and set it on the table. "You finished eating, bro?"

"Yep."

"Then let's pay and head to the Police Station. Time's a wasting."

# # # #

Joe phoned Ziegler while Frank drove. The drive was short – just ten minutes. More time was spent at traffic lights than driving. Joe's conversation with Ziegler was short and animated.

Frank heard Joe say, "Arrested? When?"

So, naturally, when Joe ended the call, Frank said, "Who's been arrested?"

"Our client, Wayne Banyan." Joe looked like he'd been sucker punched and in a way he had.

Frank pulled up to a stop light. "When?"

"This morning."

"For what?"

Joe looked at Frank like he was an idiot. "Murder. The murder of Dan Sagget and Dolores Gage to be specific."

"Whoa. Ziegler probably didn't tell you why or how this came about, did he?"

Joe ran a hand through his short, blond hair, a gesture of frustration. "Nope, he said he'd tell us when we get to the Station."

The light turned green and Frank accelerated. Getting to the Police Station had suddenly taken on a new urgency.

# # # #

Deke drove down Main Street searching for Joe or his truck. Deke had checked the parking lot of every hotel and motel in town. There weren't many to check, not in a small town like Healy. Next, Deke had checked every diner and café in town and had struck out there, too. Where the devil was Hardy?

Deke _knew_ Hardy was in town. The video from the snake shack proved that. Oh, it was grainy and poor quality, but there was no mistaking Joe Hardy. The body build matched his and the blond hair stood out like a neon sign. And Joe wasn't alone. He'd brought a friend. Some dark haired guy.

How had they found the snake shack? Nicholson had asked that very question this morning and, unfortunately for Deke, he'd had no answer. He was still in mild shock after watching the video. Joe and his buddy had crept up to the shack, waltzed right in, traipsed throughout the entire building, shot the damn snakes, and then high-tailed it out of there.

The story was right there in black and white. And Nicholson didn't like it. He'd make that abundantly clear. Deke had received a minor scolding.

Hadn't Deke stood in Nicholson's study on Friday night and said, "We won't let Hardy get too close."

Well, Hardy had gotten close. And for Deke, having his words thrown back at him, had hurt. Deke didn't like failure and Hardy finding the snake shack was a major failure.

All Deke could do was promise Nicholson that he was on it now. He'd find Hardy and set him straight. Run him out of town if he had to.

"You do that." Nicholson's eyes had gone dark and his mouth had been thin and sharp like a surgical blade. He'd poked a finger into Deke's chest as he'd spoke, "You find him and you make damn sure he gets the message. Stay away from me, the docks, and my properties. I won't be so nice the next time he, or his friend, trespasses."

Deke had every intention of doing just that, but right now his stomach was reminding him he'd skipped breakfast. He pulled into the drive-thru lane of a fast food restaurant and ordered a coffee and an egg muffin. A little caffeine and some food might spark an idea as to where Joe Hardy was.

Thirty minutes later, Deke sat in the parking lot of the fast food restaurant. The egg muffin was gone and so was the coffee. Deke had had plenty of time to think. His mind had sorted through the various possibilities and he'd figured it out. There was one person Joe Hardy had befriended in this town. That detective, Ziegler. There was a good chance Hardy would stop by the Police Station and check in with Ziegler now that he was back in town.

Deke smiled. He would park himself outside the Police Station and wait. Give it an hour or two. If this turned out to be a dead end then he would have to ferret out Hardy's whereabouts some other way. One thing was for sure, he couldn't go back to Nicholson empty handed.

# # # #

The Police Station was a beehive of activity. Joe and Frank followed Ziegler into his office.

Ziegler shut the door of his office and looked at Joe and Frank. "I have, literally, five minutes for you guys. The newspaper and TV people are going to descend upon this place like vultures once the Captain announces Banyan's arrest."

Joe noted the agitation in Ziegler's voice. The man was under tremendous pressure, so Joe got straight to the point. "Fill me in. You arrested Banyan for murder? That means you must've found some evidence that puts him at the scene." Joe's tone said, _and you didn't share this with me?_

Ziegler shot Joe a look of impatience. "Look, Hardy. I'm being nice letting you in here and discussing Banyan with. I don't have to share anything with you and you know it." He held a hand up and his expression softened. "But in the interest of cooperation, I'll tell you what happened."

"Thanks." Joe felt the anger that had risen, start to recede a little.

Ziegler plopped into his chair behind his desk. "Banyan's sister, Connie Marshall, called me this morning. Must've been around seven. She was kinda incoherent at first, but after a few tries she finally got out what she wanted to say. She told me her brother had confessed to murdering Dan Sagget and their mother."

"What?" Skepticism sparked in Joe's eyes. "Wayne just up and confessed?"

"Simmer down, Hardy. It gets better. I brought Banyan in for questioning right after Ms. Marshall's call, and guess what? He admitted to telling her that. He sat in the interrogation room and calmly told me how he wanted to kill his step-father and mother. Said he'd been planning the murders for a long time."

Joe stood in stunned silence, the wheels turning in his head, trying to piece this information into a narrative that made sense. Finally, he said, "Wanting to kill someone and planning to kill them doesn't necessarily add up to, _actually_ , killing them."

The angles of Ziegler's face hardened. "He confessed, Hardy. And he's being processed as we speak. The Captain's happy as a pig in a mud hole about this. He's got a press conference scheduled in half an hour."

Well, good for the captain, Joe thought. Doesn't mean they had the right man for the murders.

Frank crossed his arms and directed his comments at Ziegler, "You'll need more than Banyan's word when the case goes to trial. A good defense lawyer will tear this case to shreds. Juries and judges like compelling evidence. You need something that puts Banyan at the scene of both murders."

Ziegler's face soured. "We're working on it."

"I'd like to talk to Banyan?" Joe said. He wanted to hear from Banyan himself. Wanted Banyan tell him to his face that he had murdered his mother and step-father.

Ziegler pushed out of his chair. "Only his lawyer's allowed to see him."

Joe had expected this answer, but he would have been remiss if he hadn't tried to speak to Banyan. "Who's his lawyer?"

"He doesn't have one yet. I'll let you know as soon as he gets one."

Joe knew Ziegler was placating him. Ziegler was never going to call him about the lawyer. That was way down the priority list. Ziegler was going to be busy with the case, looking for that much needed evidence. But still, Joe was gracious. "Thanks, I'd appreciate it."

"Oh," Ziegler said, "Banyan did have something for you."

"Yeah? What?"

"His dog." Ziegler withdrew a set of keys from his jacket pocket. "Banyan wants you to watch his dog while he's incarcerated. If you can't watch it, we'll have to put it in the pound." To his credit, Ziegler looked sad about the prospect.

Joe glanced at Frank – saw him nod – and turned back to Ziegler. "We'll take the dog." He held out his hand for the keys.

"Can't let you in the house by yourselves. We're processing it for evidence. I'll have a uniform follow you over there so you can get the dog and its food."

# # # #

Frank stayed inside the Station to wait for the uniformed officer who would accompany him and Joe to Banyan's house. Joe said he'd wait outside. He desperately needed air. The world had gone to hell in a matter of thirty minutes.

Joe pushed open the heavy, glass door of the Station and stepped out into the sunlit day. He put a hand to his eyes to shield them and aimed himself in the direction of Frank's SUV. Something caught his eye. It was Deke leaning against a shiny red pickup truck looking like he didn't have a care in the world. Well, until he spotted Joe.

Joe did a double take and halted. Thought about veering off in a different direction so Deke wouldn't know which vehicle he was headed for, but decided against it. Deke was here waiting, so he probably already knew which vehicle. The real question was, how had Deke found him?

Deke smiled at Joe. The smile was akin to a crocodile surfacing and spotting prey. _Oh, looky here, something to eat_. Joe crossed the parking lot and Deke's eyes bored into him.

"What?" Deke called out. "No hello? A good morning? No, how you doing?"

Deke laughed and it sent a ripple of anger rushing through Joe. The anger Joe had kept in check while talking to Ziegler. Ignore the mocking laughter, Joe told himself. Just keep walking. Easier said than done. His anger was looking for a target. His right hand curled into a fist.

"You being a PI," Deke said, "you should know the laws. Breaking and entering is a crime."

Joe felt his pulse thump and the skin at the base of his skull tightened. Every nerve ending sprang to life. Joe had officially stopped walking. And no sense pretending he was going to Frank's SUV.

Slowly, Joe turned and faced Deke. "What do you want Boxberger?"

That got Deke's attention. Joe knew his name.

"Wow, I'm impressed." Deke's tone conveyed the complete opposite. "Using those PI skills, huh? You're good, Hardy. If I ever need anything investigated, I'll call you."

Joe took a few steps toward Deke. His right hand was still fisted. It refused to relax. "I'll ask again, what do you want?"

"I think you know why I'm here, but since you seem to be intellectually challenged today, I'll spell it out." Deke pushed off the side of the red pickup and got within an inch of Joe. "Nicholson warned you once. Stay away from him, his docks, and his property. This is your second warning. Not many people get those. Consider yourself lucky."

Joe glared hard at Deke. "What's in it for you?"

Deke frowned. The question had caught him by surprise. He recovered quickly, though. "I work for the man. I do what he says."

"Even if it's illegal?" Joe watched Deke's face, saw him go deep within himself for a split-second and then he was back, cocky and sure of himself.

"Illegal? You're a fine one to talk." Deke's eyes shifted to something over Joe's right shoulder. "Who's he?"

Joe looked back, saw Frank, and turned back to Deke. "My brother."

"The message applies to him, too. Stay clear of Nicholson and anything he owns. This is your last warning. Both of you."

"Duly noted," Joe said.

Frank came up and stood beside Joe. The brothers watched Deke climb into his pickup, start the engine, and peel away.

"Friend of yours?" Frank asked.

"Deke Boxberger," Joe said. "Nicholson's right hand man."

"The man who's also buddy-buddy with Colonel Charles," Frank said.

Joe was about to reply when a young uniformed officer pulled up beside him in a patrol car.

The officer rolled down his window and stuck out his head. "I'm headed to Mr. Banyan's house. Mr. Frank Hardy says you know the way already."

"I do," Joe said. "We'll meet you there."

"Roger that," the officer said and drove off.

"The only bright spot in this morning so far," Joe said to Frank as they walked to the SUV, "is getting Bulka. Being here has reminded me of how much I missed her. Man, I missed her badly when I first left Afghanistan. I missed the guys, too, but Bulka .. Bulka held a special place in my heart. Dogs. They give you nothing but unconditional love."

Frank agreed. The bond between a man and his dog ran deep. "I can't wait to meet her." Frank smiled briefly. "But we need to check with Ms. Bentley and see if she allows pets. If she doesn't we'll have to find a new place to spend the rest of the week."

They were at the SUV. Joe opened his door. "Dang, I hadn't thought about that. All I've been thinking about was getting Bulka."

"Understandable," Frank said reassuringly. "I'll contact Ms. Bentley after we get the dog."

"Thanks," Joe said and both men climbed into the SUV. "I hope she allows dogs. I'd really hate to leave the house. It's got everything we need. Even a backyard for Bulka."

Frank started the engine. "I'll do my best to persuade Ms. Bentley if she seems reluctant."

Frank didn't want to lose the house either, especially now. The girls were scheduled to arrive on Friday. Frank didn't think they would be able to find a better place for all four of them. A place where they could have their own space, yet hang out together, too. And now, a dog had been added to the mix. Frank would do everything in his power to keep the house.

* * *

 _A/N: Thank you all for the reviews. You all are much too kind!_


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

Frank drove while Joe contemplated the morning's events.

Joe sighed and said, "I really need to talk to Wayne. I don't believe he killed his mother or step-dad." Before Frank could comment, Joe added, "I know he _wanted_ to kill them. He told me as much the first night I arrived in town and had dinner with him. He didn't try to hide it or sugar coat it. He came right out and said he'd been thinking about it for years."

"That's exactly what he told Detective Ziegler," Frank said.

"And that is precisely my point," Joe said. "But, and this an important _but_ , he also told me someone had beaten him to it. Someone else had murdered his stepfather before he got the chance to. That's why he hired me. He wanted to know who had _really_ killed Dan Sagget, especially since the police were looking hard at Wayne by that time."

"Because the bloody gloves had been planted in his yard," Frank said.

"Right." Joe peered out the car window and watched the houses slid by. "I need to talk to Connie Marshall. I need to know exactly what Wayne said to her."

"Probably the same thing he said to you and Detective Ziegler. 'I wanted to kill them. I thought about it for years.'"

Joe gave half a shrug and a helpless gesture with his hands. "Yeah, but wouldn't he also tell them he hadn't really killed Sagget and Dolores, just like he told me?"

Frank flipped on his turn signal. "One would think so. But then, we don't really know what Wayne said in that interrogation room. We only have Ziegler's version of what was said and he didn't exactly go into detail."

Frank turned onto Wayne Banyan's street and proceeded slowly.

"Wayne needs a good lawyer," Joe said. "One that's willing to work with us. One that will share what was said in that interrogation room."

Frank pulled up to the curb outside Banyan's house and killed the engine. "I've been thinking about that. How 'bout I call Nancy's dad, Carson Drew. He's a prominent attorney and I'm sure he can recommend a good lawyer for Wayne."

Joe brightened. "Great idea, bro. Why didn't I think of that?"

Frank grinned. "I think you were blindsided this morning by Wayne's confession and then the confrontation with Deke didn't help."

"Yeah. Deke. I'd forgotten about him."

"Well, don't," Frank growled. "Our little adventure last night obviously upset Nicholson and I don't think it was just that we trespassed on his property. If that was the case he would have called the police and reported us. He didn't because he doesn't want the police snooping around that snake house any more than he wanted us there. That tells me Nicholson has secrets buried somewhere out there and he's afraid we'll find them."

"We got a little too close for comfort," Joe said and Frank nodded.

Joe and Frank looked at the driveway. Two police cars were parked in it. One car belonged to the young officer Joe had met in the parking lot at the Police Station.

Joe put a hand on the door handle. "Guess we should go in. Don't want to keep Bulka waiting."

"You go in," Frank said. "I'll stay here and phone Ms. Bentley. I'd like to know for sure if we can bring Bulka to the house. Once that's settled, if you're not back, I'll phone Carson Drew and see about getting a lawyer for Wayne."

"Sounds good," Joe said and opened his door. "See you in a bit."

# # # #

Joe headed to Wayne's front door. It was wide open and the young officer – Martin – filled the doorway, his hands on his utility belt.

"I talked to the techs and told them you're here for the dog," Officer Martin said. "They said they'll be glad when she's gone. Apparently, she's been real aggressive."

Joe gave Martin a look, _what did you expect_? "She's a former military working dog," he said by way of explanation. "She's been trained to protect and defend her territory."

Martin's eyes lit up. "Wow. A military working dog? That's cool. Was she one of those bomb sniffer dogs?"

Joe grimaced slightly at the question. It was an innocent question, but it brought back harrowing memories. He pushed those aside and stayed in the moment. "Yeah, she was. _Is_. I guess."

"She going to be okay with you taking her?"

"I think so. She knows me. I worked with her in Afghanistan and I've been here a couple of times. She was happy to see me, so I'm pretty sure she'll be fine going home with me. I'll need her stuff though. You know, food, dog bed, treats, water dish, toys. Well, you get the picture."

Martin chuckled. "Boy, do I. My wife and I just had a baby girl and you wouldn't believe all the gear we cram into the car every time we go some place. It's amazing how much stuff one small baby needs."

"Yeah." Joe nodded. One day he would probably know all about babies and their _gear_.

"Well, let's get you reunited with the dog. Follow me." Martin turned and led the way.

He and Joe walked through the living room and into the kitchen. Joe saw one Crime Scene tech going through the cupboards.

Martin smiled at the tech and said, "This is Mr. Hardy. He's here for the dog and all her stuff."

The tech looked at Joe and Joe saw relief in the man's eyes. "She's out back. Her stuff's in the garage."

Martin nodded his thanks. "Guess we'll head to the garage then."

A box of dog biscuits was on the counter. Joe picked it up and carried it to the garage. In the garage, he saw a pile of Bulka's things; bed, blanket, water and food dishes, a big bag of dog food, and a couple of chewed up balls. A leash hung on the wall next to the door. Joe opened the box of biscuits, took one out and put it in his jacket pocket. Then he dropped the box on the dog bed and grabbed the leash. He and Martin walked to the door that led to the backyard. Martin opened the door and Bulka instantly started barking. Definitely an aggressive bark. She was ten feet from the door with hackles up and her teeth bared.

"I'll let you go first," Martin said with a wry smile. No way was he going to risk getting bit.

Joe swallowed and said, "No problem." He walked outside and stopped three feet from the door. Better to be cautious. Bulka's bark indicated she was wound up pretty tight. Definitely on the defensive. And who could blame her? Strangers had invaded her home and taken away her master.

Joe pulled the dog biscuit out of his pocket and got down on one knee. The leash was in his left hand. Bulka approached cautiously, sniffing the air and Joe.

Joe held out the biscuit. "C'mon, girl. You remember me."

Bulka looked at Joe, ears forward and eyes wide. Then she looked at Martin standing in the doorway. A stranger. She backed up and barked viciously, teeth flashing. Martin scooted behind the door and gripped the doorknob like his life depended on it. If the dog lunged, he'd slam the door in her face.

"Hey, hey, hey," Joe cooed. "Bulka, it's me. Focus on me."

Bulka's paced back and forth. Her attention shifted from Martin – cowering behind the door – to Joe. Joe saw the puzzled expression in Bulka's soft caramel colored eyes. He wished he could explain everything to her. Make her understand why her master wasn't there.

"C'mon, girl. Everything's fine. You're going home with me .. and my brother." Joe stretched out his hand with the biscuit. "You hungry?"

Bulka checked her surroundings; the yard, the man behind the door, the house, and Joe. He held out the biscuit, waggled it to entice her. She stopped pacing and barked at him, a short, sharp bark that sounded like a question, like she was asking, what's going on?

Joe put the biscuit back in his pocket and switched the leash to his right hand. "Yeah, I know, girl. It's been a crazy day for you. Your world has been turned upside down. But listen, I'm here to help you. I'm going to take you home with me. I've got a nice rental house with a big backyard. You're going to love it there.

"I know you miss Wayne and I miss him, too. But don't worry. My brother and I are working on getting him out of jail. We'll have you two reunited before you know it. So, what do you say to that?"

Bulka whined at Joe and barked at Martin. No way was she going to let him come out from behind that door.

Joe glanced back at Martin and then looked at Bulka. "He's okay, girl. He's a police officer just like Wayne, and me, and you. He's on our side. He's one of the good guys."

Bulka whimpered and nervously stepped closer to Joe. She sniffed at his hand, the one that held the leash, but had held the biscuit.

"What? You want the biscuit now?" Joe dug in his pocket and withdrew the treat. "Just like a woman. Always changing their minds."

He smiled, held out his hand, palm side up, with the biscuit. Bulka snatched it up, backed away, and chewed. When the biscuit was gone, she came back to Joe, sniffing at his hand and pocket.

"Haven't got any more biscuits," Joe told her. "You'll have to come with me into the garage. Whadda ya say? Want to go?"

Bulka sniffed his face and he stroked her side. She whined for another biscuit.

"Okay, girl. Let me get this leash on you and we'll go in the garage. Your biscuits are in there. You ready?" Joe pushed to his feet and looked down at Bulka. "Tell me you're ready, girl." He wanted her excited about going with him.

She barked and wagged her tail. There was happiness in that wag.

Joe smiled. "Okay, just let me hook you up." He attached the leash to Bulka's harness and led her to the garage.

Despite the fact Joe had Bulka on a very short leash, Martin granted her a wide berth. He'd seen those teeth. "You're like a dog whisperer," he said.

"She knows me, remember?" Joe countered. "I'll give her another biscuit and then take her outside. She still has to meet my brother."

Martin's brows rose. "Hope she takes to him better than she took to me. I'll help you carry her stuff to the vehicle."

The big garage door was open and Joe could see Frank out front leaning against his SUV, his phone to his ear. Bulka was sniffing at her dog biscuit box. She pulled on the leash, yanking Joe closer to it. He scooped the box up, dug out another biscuit, and handed it to her. He made a mental note to get more dog biscuits when he and Frank went to the grocery store.

Joe turned to Martin who stood a good fifteen feet away. "Let me take her out and meet my brother. Once they're cool with each other then we'll load up her stuff."

"Fine by me," Martin said. "I'll just wait right here."

Frank ended his call and slid his phone into the holster on his hip. He smiled at his brother and the dog.

Joe had Bulka on a short leash. "I have to warn you," Joe said as he approached, "she's a military working dog and doesn't warm up to people real quick."

Frank got on one knee and held out a hand. Bulka tugged on the leash, forcing Joe forward. Bulka sniffed Frank's face and licked his hand. He grinned and petted her head and neck.

"Awww, geeez," Joe groaned. "Bulka, you just met the guy and you're slobbering over him already? You weren't like that with Officer Martin. You wouldn't even let him near you."

Frank scratched behind Bulka's ears as he smiled up at his brother. "I think she senses that we're brothers. Maybe we have a similar smell."

"Maybe. The dogs could all smell the Afghans a mile away. Very distinctive smell those guys had. You never forget it. Still, Bulka warmed up to you real fast."

Frank's smile grew. He was in seventh heaven, lavishing affection on Bulka and receiving it in return. "She's a beauty, Joe. I'm going to love spending time with her."

"Yeah, and she's well trained. I mean, other than when she meets a tall, dark, handsome stranger." Joe chuckled under his breath. "Man, she is so like a woman, sees a good looking guy and goes to pieces."

Frank laughed and got to his feet. "Sit," he commanded Bulka.

She immediately complied and sat perfectly straight on the pavement, her tail swishing back and forth. Her inquisitive eyes bounced from one brother to the other. She barked, two short barks, one directed at each brother.

Frank smiled broadly and looked at his brother. "I think she just said, _I like you two_."

# # # #

Joe stayed at the rental house with Bulka while Frank went to the grocery store. The brothers had agreed they couldn't leave Bulka home alone, not yet, not so soon after getting her. She needed time to get acclimated to her new surroundings.

Ms. Bentley did allow pets. There was an additional fee. Frank said he would stop by her office and pay the fee on his way to the grocery store.

Joe sat in the backyard in one of the deck chairs. Bulka was making a circuit of the yard. Every bush and every tree had to be sniffed and, occasionally, marked. Joe watched with disinterest. He had a call to make. Since he couldn't talk to Wayne, he decided he would talk to Wayne's sister. Connie was the one who had called the police this morning. Something Wayne had said to her in the last day or so had provoked her to call the police.

What in the world had Wayne actually said?

Joe wanted to know and only Connie could tell him the exact words Wayne had spoken.

Joe lifted his phone, found Connie's number, and punched it in. The phone rang several times. Too many times. Joe started to get anxious. Maybe Connie wasn't home. Maybe she was out with friends. Did she have any friends?

Suddenly, she answered, "Hey, is this that PI that came around a couple of days ago asking me questions 'bout my mom and Dan Sagget?"

Joe figured Connie was screening her calls. Not a bad idea. "Yes, it is. Name's Joseph Hardy. I heard that Wayne was arrested this morning." Joe let the statement hang in the air for a moment. Waited to see if Connie would say anything. She didn't, so Joe pressed on. "I'd like to talk to you about your brother, Miss Marshall. I can swing by your house in about an hour and a half. Would you be home then?"

There was a long silence. Joe guessed Connie was weighing the pros and cons of talking to him.

Finally, she said, "Yeah, I'll be home then."

"Good. I'll come by at," Joe looked at his phone, "at two-thirty."

"O-okay." Connie hung up fast.

Joe was left staring at his phone. Connie hadn't sounded thrilled to hear from him. Nor had she sounded thrilled at the prospect of talking to him. Joe reminded himself of his first interview with Connie Marshall. She had not shown much concern for her brother's childhood abuse. She had been far more interested in herself and her boyfriend. That shouldn't surprise Joe. Most teenagers were more concerned with themselves and their friends.

Bulka trotted to the water dish Joe had placed near the fire pit and lapped up water. It was a messy affair. Water splashed onto the patio pavers and stone on the fire pit.

"Guess you were thirsty," Joe said.

Bulka padded over to him and he petted her head and scratched under her chin.

"You're a good dog, Bulka. You know that?"

Bulka yawned and let out a long, weary whimper. Joe realized she was tired. She'd had a stressful morning, filled with strangers. Strangers had come and torn her home apart. Other strangers had taken her master away.

Yeah, a lot had happened to her today. Overall though, Joe would say she was adjusting well. She collapsed in a heap on the patio, spent a few moments licking herself and then settled down for a nap.

# # # #

An hour later, Frank came home, unloaded the groceries, put them away, and wandered into the backyard in search of his brother and Bulka. Joe was sacked out in the deck chair. Bulka was curled up on the patio next to the chair. She lifted her head the second Frank opened the French doors and bolted straight for him.

Frank grinned as she barreled toward him, but his tone was stern, "Whoa. Take it easy, girl. No jumping."

The reprimand worked. Bulka minded her manners and let Frank lay a little loving on her. After their bonding was complete, they walked over to Joe. He hadn't moved. He was sprawled in the deck chair and sound asleep. Well, this wouldn't do.

"Yo, Joe." Frank nudged Joe's foot and Bulka barked.

Joe jerked awake. He was instantly hyper-alert and an intensity shone in his eyes .. for a second. Then he saw Frank standing in front of him, a big ole' grin on his face.

"What the hell, Frank?"

"You were dead to the world, bro." Frank laughed.

Joe rubbed his eyes and ran his hands down his face. "Geez, guess I dozed off. What time is it?"

Frank checked his watch. "Two o'clock."

"What?" A touch of panic laced Joe's voice. "Two? Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. Unless my watch stopped working." Frank placed his wrist with the watch to his ear and listened. "Watch is fine. Still ticking."

Joe was out of the chair and hurrying to the house.

Frank hustled after him. "Hey, what's going on?"

Bulka bounded between the brothers, tail wagging. Her keen senses told her something was up.

Joe strode into the house, talking over his shoulder. "I have an appointment with Connie Marshall at two-thirty. I have to leave in, like, five minutes if I want to be there on time."

"You mean _we_ have to leave in five minutes," Frank amended. "Unless you have another vehicle at your disposal that I don't know about."

Joe stopped at the kitchen sink and turned to his brother. "Still don't trust me to drive your vehicle?"

Frank leaned against a kitchen counter and crossed his arms. "Nope. But I don't trust anyone to drive my vehicle. You know that."

"Not even Nancy?" Joe got a glass out of the cupboard.

"Not even Nancy."

"You're going to marry the woman," Joe declared.

"Doesn't mean I want her driving my SUV."

Joe held the glass under the faucet and filled it with water. "Well, now I don't feel so bad about you not letting me drive it." He drank some water and said, "Okay, _we_ have to leave in five minutes. I'll finish this water, rinse my face, grab Bulka's leash, and we're outta here."

"I'll get Bulka's leash and get her loaded in the SUV. She needs to get used to me leading her."

Joe couldn't argue with that and didn't.

Five minutes later, the brothers were on their way. Bulka was secure in her doggy crate in the back of the SUV. Joe still marveled at all the _stuff_ he and Frank had brought to the house for Bulka. Good thing there was plenty of room in Frank's SUV.

At two-thirty on the dot, Frank parked next to a rusted out car in front of Connie Marshall's trailer. Connie sat on the porch steps smoking a cigarette. She looked pale and bone tired.

Frank eyed the trailer. "Not much to look at, is it?"

"Nope," Joe said. "A good windstorm might blow the whole thing down."

"Might not even take a good windstorm," Frank said.

Connie stood, took a long drag on her cigarette, exhaled a stream of smoke, and studied the SUV. Joe saw a subtle hint of wariness in her posture. Or was it weariness? Hard to tell.

Bulka whined in the back and Frank said, "How 'bout I take Bulka for a walk while you talk to Connie Marshall?"

Joe nodded. "Good idea. Connie looks a little spooked. Don't need the dog frightening her."

Both men exited the SUV. Frank went to the back and Joe went to the front. Joe walked past the hood of the SUV and toward the porch steps. Connie was frowning hard and Joe saw the crows' feet at the corner of her eyes. Her attention was riveted on Frank and the large dog leaping out of the back of the vehicle.

Frank put Bulka on a short leash and kept her close to his side. "See you in a few," he called to Joe. Then he and Bulka headed down the gravel lane that ran between the two rows of crumbling trailers. Bulka was alert and sniffing, her head swinging left and right as she breathed in a multitude of scents.

Joe kept his eyes on Connie. Frank and Bulka's quick departure seemed to have relieved her.

Connie skipped a greeting and opted for a question, "Who's that, with the dog?"

"My brother. He's helping me with your brother's case."

Connie snorted and flicked ashes off her cigarette. "My brother's case? Haven't you heard? He confessed. He's the killer. He killed Dan and my mom." There was a slight catch in Connie's voice when she said, _my mom_.

So, there was some feeling there, Joe thought. He cleared his throat. "That's why I'm here, Miss Marshall. I'd like to know exactly what your brother said when he confessed to you."

Connie looked up at the sky and then at Joe and shook her head. "I already told everything to that detective. You can go ask him. Detective .. Detective Ziegler. He took down everything I said. It's all in his report. I watched him write it down, word for word. Oh, and I had to read and sign it, too."

Joe suddenly felt very tired. Connie was going to force him to drag the information out of her. Word for word. This interview wasn't going to go as smoothly as Joe had hoped. He motioned at the steps. "Can we sit?"

Connie huffed dramatically. Joe got the message. He was placing a huge imposition upon her. Cutting into her time. He wondered, what the hell did she do with her time?

"Please," Joe said in his kindest, gentlest tone.

"Oh, okay." Connie plopped on the top step.

Joe withdrew his trusty notepad and pen and sat next to Connie. He remembered how rough the wood was. A splinter in the butt wasn't something he wished to experience today. The day had gotten off to a rocky start. He didn't want it to end on one.

Joe settled himself on the step and said, "I spoke to Detective Ziegler this morning. Unfortunately, he was pressed for time. The news media were setting up for a conference so, he didn't have time to give me all the details. That's why I'm here. I'd like you to tell me exactly what you told Ziegler."

"Exactly?" Connie's eyes were big and round. "I have to say all of that again?"

Joe's tone remained calm and kind. "As close as you can remember. I'd really appreciate it."

Connie took a long drag on her cigarette and considered. At last, she exhaled, ground out the cigarette, and flung it in the gravel. "Okay, but I can't guarantee it's gonna be _exactly_ what I told the detective."

"Understood," Joe said. "Let's start with when Wayne confessed. What day and time was that?"

"That's easy. I'll never forget that. Me and my Uncle Mike went to Wayne's house on Saturday to talk about funeral arrangements for my mom. I think her husband, Randy, was supposed to be there, but he never showed up. We sat around for a while and finally decided to start without him." Connie let out a small sigh. "I can't give you a precise time. It's not like I was staring at a clock while I was there. Best I can say is, we all met at three and left about four-fifteen."

Joe wrote in his notepad and nodded at Connie. "Okay, so between three and four-fifteen on Saturday. Tell me about the discussion you had with your brother and uncle. How'd it come about that Wayne confessed?"

Connie wrapped her arms around her knees, lowered her head to her knees, and looked like she might cry. Clearly, this was a difficult memory for her. Joe knew he'd have to go slow and easy with her. He couldn't push it.

"Take your time," he said.

After a few seconds, Connie regained her composure and sat up. She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "Yeah, um, sorry about that. I'm still upset about my .. my mom. I didn't think I cared that much about her. Seems I was wrong. This death .. _her_ death, is hitting me harder than I thought it would."

"I understand."

Connie nodded, grateful for the words, then drew in a breath and said, "Okay, so, we were sitting there in Wayne's kitchen. He keeps a clean house." Connie shot Joe a look. "I don't know why, but that surprised me. His house is neat as a pin. Who would've guessed that? Anyway, we were finished discussing the funeral arrangements and Uncle Mike up and says, 'So, who do you guys think killed them?' Meaning Dan and mom.

"I was like, 'What?' He really asked that? That seemed a little insensitive to me. And then Wayne says, real matter-of-fact like, 'I _wanted_ to kill them. Been thinking about it for years. Had it all planned out.'

"Uncle Mike and me looked at each other and then we stared at Wayne with our mouths hanging open. I don't think either of us could believe he'd said that.

"Uncle Mike says, 'What do you mean you been planning it for years?' And Wayne goes, 'Just what I said. Had it all planned out.'"

Connie shuddered and hugged herself like the weather had suddenly turned cold. "It was weird. I mean _really_ weird. I-I didn't know what to think."

Gently, Joe said, "I want to make sure I have this right. Wayne said he wanted to kill them and he'd planned for years to kill them, but he never _actually_ said he _had_ killed them? Or did he?"

Connie pouted and a frown knit her brows together. "Well, let me think. Okay, Uncle Mike said to Wayne, 'So you killed them?' Wayne shook his head, got up, and started clearing the table. He'd given us sodas to drink and he was real methodical about picking those soda cans up and putting 'em in the sink. He gave me the creeps the way he did it cause he was watching me and Uncle Mike the whole time like .. like .. I don't know like what, but he scared me. Scared me bad. I saw the look in his eyes. He had this look that said he'd just told us a secret and we better not tell it to another living soul."

Connie rubbed her arms and Joe saw the goosebumps. The woman had truly been frightened and still was.

Joe felt a little of that fear seep into him. Connie's story was indeed creepy. Joe could see why she would think Wayne had committed the murders. The way Connie told it, it sounded like Wayne had enjoyed the whole, they're dead and I _migh_ t have killed them scenario.

Joe, however, was clear about one thing in his mind. Even in Connie's story, Wayne had never actually said the words, _I killed them_. Oh, he'd left that impression. No argument there and Joe wondered why Wayne had done that. Why give any one the impression you had committed a murder? Or in this case, murders.

Joe had another question for Connie. "You said this happened on Saturday afternoon?" Connie nodded and Joe continued, "Yet you waited until Monday to phone the police. Why'd you wait? You could've phoned the police on Saturday or Sunday."

"I had to think about, didn't I?" She was defensive now, practically bristling. Joe was questioning her credibility. "I-I wasn't sure at first. Like I said, it was all so weird. On Saturday I just wanted to get the hell outta there. Get as far away from Wayne as I could. I went to the bar that night and had a few. I don't remember much after that."

"After you left Wayne's house on Saturday, did you and your uncle talk about Wayne and what he'd said?"

"Yeah, as a matter-of-fact we did. We stood on the driveway for a second and I could tell Uncle Mike wanted to get the hell out of there, too. But I said, 'Hey, wasn't that weird. Wayne kinda confessed, didn't he?' And Uncle Mike said, 'Yeah, kinda seemed that way.' And I said, 'Think we should call the police, tell 'em what he said?' I got the feeling Uncle Mike wasn't keen on the idea. He said something like, 'I don't know. Best to leave the whole mess alone. We got enough on our plates figuring out this funeral. We got plenty of time after the funeral to figure out what to do about Wayne.'

"I might be wrong, but that made sense to me at the time."

Joe looked at Connie long and hard. Her eyes flashed, daring him to challenge her. Joe saw an insecure woman hiding beneath a bunch of sharp edges. "What made you change your mind about calling the police?"

Connie shrugged, a gesture of defeat and despair. "I couldn't take it anymore. Wayne's words haunted me. Every night I dreamed about them and I saw those eyes of his in my dreams." She was animated now, her hands balled into fists and striking her legs. "The way he'd looked at me and Uncle Mike. I-I couldn't get that look outta my head. I got to thinking, he's planning to kill the whole damn family." She looked at Joe and he saw the terror in her eyes. "First Dan, then mom, and .. and me. I was going to be next. That scared the crap outta me. I had to tell someone what he'd said. I had to protect myself. I-I figured the police could do that. If they knew the truth, they'd protect me if Wayne tried anything.

"It worked out better than I imagined it would. I told them what happened and they arrested him. Just went right then and there and arrested him. Now, knowing he's behind bars, I can sleep at night."

And now, Joe understood. He thanked Connie for her time and gave her one of his cards. She'd lost the first one he'd given her.

"You've been very helpful," he said. "Call me if you think of anything else."

They stood and Connie smoothed down her jeans. All the smoothing in the world wasn't going to get the wrinkles out of those jeans. "So, you're still working for my brother even though he's confessed to killing Dan?"

Joe stifled a grin. "Yes, I'm still working for your brother. And for the record, he's innocent until proven guilty in a court of law."

Connie had nothing to say to that. Thankfully, she was saved from trying to find a response. Frank and Bulka reappeared. Frank wore a big smile and Bulka proudly carried a stick in her mouth.

Joe pointed at the card in Connie's hand. "Try not to lose my card, Miss Marshall. And, please, if you think of anything, anything at all about that Saturday afternoon conversation, or you think of anything else that you suspect might help me with this case, give me a call. I don't care if it's two in the morning."

"Yeah, sure." Connie's eyes were fixed on the dog.

It wasn't the enthusiastic response Joe was hoping for. He turned, walked down the steps and met up with Frank and Bulka at the SUV. "Looks like you two had a good walk."

"We did." Frank opened the hatchback at the rear of his SUV, tossed the stick into the back of the vehicle, and patted the floor.

Bulka hopped up, into the back of the vehicle, and stretched her face toward Joe. He stroked her side while she panted. "What's with the stick?" he asked.

"She found it and wouldn't leave it." Frank shrugged. What's a dog owner to do? Frank saw that Connie had gone into her trailer. "How'd your interview go? Get any useful information?"

"Maybe," Joe said. "As I suspected, Wayne did not actually admit to killing Sagget or his mother. He told Connie and his uncle the same thing he told me, that he had _wanted_ to kill them and that he'd thought about it for years."

Frank opened the doggy crate. "And wasn't he upset that someone had beat him to the killings?"

"Yes, he was."

Frank motioned Bulka into the crate, shut the door once she was inside, and latched it. "So, what's on the agenda for the rest of the day?"

"Hamburgers on the grill. A game of fetch with Bulka and her new stick and then we take her out on the boat. If she does okay on a boat ride then we take her with us when we do our night surveillance of Nicholson's docks."

Frank smiled. "All sounds good to me." He closed the hatchback and the brothers walked to the front of the vehicle and climbed in.

Joe spent the drive home thinking over everything Connie had told him. One thing still bothered him. The why. Why had Wayne told his sister and uncle he wanted to kill Sagget and his mother?

Joe needed an answer to that question.

* * *

 _A/N: Thank you to those reading and especially to those who left a review. I enjoy reading your thoughts about each chapter. :)_


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

It was four p.m. Joe and Frank were in the kitchen of the rental house preparing dinner. Joe had fired up the grill when they first got home and Frank had wrapped four potatoes in aluminum foil and placed them in a hot oven. Now, Frank was at the counter shaping ground beef into hamburgers and laying them on a plate. Joe was slicing onions and beef steak tomatoes into thick slices. The brothers had missed lunch, so dinner was something they were looking forward to.

Bulka was in the backyard chewing on her stick. Joe had given her water and refilled her food dish. She'd lapped up lots of water, but the stick had won out over food.

"That stick's not going to last the night," Joe had said to Frank.

Frank had agreed, saying, "It's better than a chew toy. Maybe the appeal is that she found it all on her own."

"Could be." Joe didn't know how dog's minds worked, but he imagined that Bulka rarely left her home or backyard. In that sense, today had been a huge adventure for her. She'd been thus into a new home and yard with new sights and smells. Then the brothers had taken her to the broken down trailer park where Connie lived. Tons more sights and smells had awaited her there. Joe couldn't blame Bulka for wanting to bring a little piece of her adventure home.

Frank laid the last hamburger on the plate. There were a total of six. He salt and peppered the meat and added steak seasoning for good measure.

"Hamburgers are ready," he said and went to the sink to wash his hands. "I'm going to call Carson Drew. I'd like to know if he found a lawyer for Wayne."

Joe rinsed the knife he'd been using, dried it, and placed it in the knife rack. "I'll check the grill, see if the coals are ready – then I'll call Ziegler. He was so rushed this morning – practically pushing us out of the Station – that I didn't get a chance to tell him about our nighttime foray in the shipping container graveyard. I'd like him to investigate Colonel Charles, Mr. Beard, and those missing men."

Frank dried his hands on a kitchen towel. "I don't think it'd be a bad idea if we went back to the graveyard later this week to check on Mr. Beard, make sure he's still there. I'd hate to find out he went missing, too."

"Yeah, me, too," Joe said. "And if he's still there, he might have more information for us. I got the impression Colonel Charles doesn't like people going behind his back. So, yeah, we definitely have to pay the graveyard, the Colonel, and Mr. Beard another visit. Let's do that Wednesday night." Joe shook his head as if to dismiss the thoughts a graveyard visit had conjured up. "All this talk of a graveyard makes me think of Halloween. Is it October yet?"

Frank squinted and peered hard at Joe. "Wednesday is October first."

"What?" Joe cringed a little. "Well, what do you know? Perfect timing. A graveyard visit on October first."

The brothers chuckled uneasily.

Well, it wasn't an actual graveyard with dead bodies, Joe thought. At least, he hoped it wasn't.

# # # #

Bulka was right on Joe's heels, head up, eyeing the plate of food in his hand. "Geez, Bulka, I can't walk without you getting in the way. I almost tripped over you back there. Give a guy some room."

Bulka whimpered and whined as she trotted next to Joe, her eyes never leaving the plate in his hand. She didn't care one iota about the baked potato with sour cream and butter. It was the hamburger that had her salivating. Oh yes, the smell of perfectly cooked meat. She'd smelled the meat, earlier, cooking on the grill, getting her all excited. And now, finally, it was ready.

Joe plopped in a chair at the patio table and Bulka plopped down on the patio right beside him, her head angled up, eyes focused on the plate.

"You don't give up, do you, girl? You have a one track mind when it comes to food." Joe picked up an ice-filled glass of water and took a long chug.

Frank came through the French doors with his own plate of food and sat at the table. Bulka decided to try the other brother. Maybe he would share. She walked over to Frank, sat in front of him, and gave him the saddest eyes she possessed.

Frank looked down at the dog and laughed. "That is one pathetic expression, Bulka. A person might think we never fed you."

"Your food dish is full," Joe told the dog and waved a hand at the dish sitting by the fire pit.

Bulka glanced in the direction Joe indicated, saw nothing of importance, and whipped her head back around. She exchanged looks with the brothers, whimpered sorrowfully, and barked once. There was a distinct note of pleading in the bark.

Frank smiled at his brother. "Something tells me she wants a hamburger."

Bulka trotted over to Joe, sat by his side, and nudged his thigh with her head. She looked up at him. Gave him the sad, woeful eyes.

Joe shook his head and grinned at Bulka. "You really know how to play the poor, pitiful me card, don't you, girl?"

"Maybe we should give her a hamburger," Frank said.

"I don't want to spoil her. Wayne wouldn't be too happy about that when he gets her back."

"One hamburger," Frank said. He was almost pleading. "One's not going to hurt. She's been out here the whole time you were cooking them, hanging right by your side. It's not like she doesn't know we're having red meat for dinner. And what dog doesn't like red meat?"

"Okay, okay. I'll give her a hamburger. If she becomes a spoiled brat, it's all your fault." Joe pointed an accusatory finger at his brother and pushed out of his chair.

Bulka sprang to her feet, eyes alert, and trotted beside Joe as he walked to the house.

"I'll take all the blame if she turns into a brat," Frank called and laughed.

At last, the brothers were settled at the patio table, digging into their food. Bulka had devoured her burger in five seconds or less. She'd tried whining for another, but received a firm, _no,_ from both brothers. She was smart enough to know she shouldn't press her luck. Suddenly, her food dish looked promising.

She was there wolfing down food while the brothers ate and discussed the phone calls they'd made.

Joe lifted his hamburger, getting ready to take a bite. "What did Carson Drew say about a lawyer for Wayne?"

"He's got one picked out. A young woman named Monica LaMarca. Carson said she plans on heading this way first thing in the morning. Apparently, she's already made contact with the Healy Police Department and talked to Detective Ziegler. She hopes to meet with Wayne tomorrow afternoon."

"All good news," Joe said. "Ziegler didn't mention her when I talked to him, but then, he sounded tired. He's had a crazy day. The local news media have been on his back all day trying to get information on Wayne and the case against him. Ziegler admitted there isn't much of a case against Wayne. Just Wayne's words, which even Ziegler finally admits don't amount to a confession. He didn't want to say that this morning, not with the media hovering close by. However, tonight, I caught him at home and he was much more open.

"He says the Police Chief insisted on arresting Wayne. Ziegler said the Chief has political ambition. The arrest of a possible serial killer makes him look good. Makes the public feel like he's doing his job, getting dangerous people off the street. It's all a win-win for him."

Frank made a soft grunt of dismissal. "Wayne's confession will never stand up in court. Ziegler needs hard evidence and he knows it. Some forensic evidence, like DNA, that puts Wayne at the crime scenes."

"I know." Joe drank some of his water. "Ziegler's still hoping to track down who bought the axes and gloves and the burner phone."

"Well, that's good," Frank said. "I'm glad he's still investigating. Did you tell him about the Colonel and Mr. Beard?"

"Yep, told him all about our little outing. He seemed intrigued. Said he hadn't heard about any missing hobos, but that didn't surprise him. The men living in that container graveyard aren't the types that go to the police when there's a problem. But Ziegler said he'd look into it. I told him we were going back on Wednesday night and would let him know if we came across anything new."

The conversation drifted to their fiancées. The brothers wondered what the women had been up to. Had the man in the truck reappeared? The men finished their dinner, cleaned up the dishes, and agreed it was time to check on the women. Frank and Joe sat by the fire pit and Frank made the call.

Nancy answered on the first ring. She and Vanessa were in Nancy and Frank's apartment. They had just finished dinner, chicken salads from the Italian restaurant across the street.

Vanessa joined Nancy on the living room sofa, pressed her shoulder to Nancy's so they both could be seen in the small phone screen, and waved at Frank and Joe. "Hey, guys. Nancy and I were just talking about you, wondering when you were going to call."

A huge grin broke the corners of Joe's mouth. "Hey, babe. Great to see you. Anything exciting happening in River Heights?"

Vanessa gave a full report. Nothing new or exciting had happened. The day had bordered on boring. She and Nancy had spent the day in their respective offices doing paperwork, answering phones, and generally missing their men.

"We've missed you ladies, too," Joe assured Vanessa.

Nancy smiled at her phone, at the brothers, and said, "I hear you guys contacted my father today. You need a lawyer for Mr. Banyan? Dad said he's been arrested?"

Frank filled Nancy in on all the details. Joe added in his interview with Connie.

"Seems very flimsy evidence to arrest someone on," Nancy said.

Behind the brothers, Bulka barked. She squeezed her head between their shoulders and barked again. The brothers laughed.

"She's like a child," Frank said. "Demanding constant attention."

Vanessa stared at the dog's face filling the phone's screen. "What is – um, who's that?"

Joe smiled. "Bulka, Wayne's dog. Frank and I are taking care of her while Wayne's in jail." Joe further explained about his military connection to Bulka.

Vanessa sighed, "You've touched my heart with that story, sweetheart, and she's a beautiful dog. I can't wait to meet her if she's still there on Friday when Nancy and I arrive. Wayne might be released before that."

"He might," Frank said, "but I'm not holding my breath. Part of his arrest is tied to small towns and their politics."

The couples spent a few minutes discussing small towns and the case. Then Frank asked, "While we're on the subject, any sightings of the man in the truck?"

"No," Nancy said quickly. She'd known Frank would ask about the man. "Vanessa and I check the alley morning, noon, and night. We've kept an eye out front, too, checking out people who linger too long on the sidewalks or hang out too long at Rigazzi's across the street."

Vanessa's face got closer to the phone screen. "We've kept an eye out for the truck, too."

"That was a rental truck," Joe reminded the women. "He's probably in a different vehicle by now."

"Vanessa and I thought of that," Nancy said. "So far, we haven't seen any new vehicles around here."

"Guess I'll take that as good news," Joe said, but he wasn't completely sure it was. "The man might have followed me back to Healy."

Nancy brushed a strand of strawberry blond hair behind her ear. "If he was sent to River Heights to follow you, logic says he would follow you back to Healy."

Frank beat Joe to a response. "Even if that's the case, you and Vanessa still need to remain vigilant. Nicholson is the type who would go after family and friends in order to hurt Joe or me."

Nancy nodded. "Vanessa and I have talked about that. That's why Vanessa's spending the night here. We're rarely alone and when we are, our phones are fully charged and within reach. I assure you, we're being very cautious."

"Good," Joe said. "That makes me feel better." And it honestly did.

Each brother spent a few minutes privately expressing his love to his fiancée. Then the conversations were over, the phone was silent, and the yard was quiet. It felt lonely without the women's voices.

Bulka broke the quiet with a playful bark. She picked up her stick, dropped it at Joe's feet, and barked again.

"Looks like it's time for a game of fetch," Joe said and got to his feet.

Frank rose and stretched. "This is good. We need to tire her out before we take her on the boat."

"True." Joe picked up the stick, tossed it, and watched Bulka charge after it.

The game of fetch lasted thirty minutes. Just long enough for Bulka to run off some excess energy. Then the brothers got their night vision binoculars and handguns and headed for the boat. Time to see how Bulka handled a boat ride.

# # # #

It was after midnight when Joe hopped onto the pier and tied up the boat. He and Frank had been gone for four hours. Frank gathered what little gear they had onboard and joined Joe on the pier.

Bulka was in the house waiting for them. She had not taken to the boat during the short, test ride. The boat was too small and too confined for a dog who liked to roam. Several times during the test ride Joe had feared Bulka was going to jump overboard. He couldn't spend an evening worrying about Bulka. In the end, the brothers decided to leave Bulka at the house while they did surveillance on the docks.

The docks. A waste of time. The brothers had seen nothing unusual there. Not a single ship arrived and not a single ship departed.

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained," Frank had said when they set sail for home. "We can try again tomorrow night."

"Yeah." Joe secretly hoped tomorrow night would be better.

The brothers entered the house via the French doors and were greeted by an ecstatic dog. Bulka barked, whimpered, and whined. She pranced and circled their legs. Hands, faces and gear were sniffed once, twice, and three times. Her tail never stopped wagging.

Joe looked at Frank. "Man, is she happy to see us. I can, literally, feel her joy."

Frank smiled and nodded. "It feels good, especially after a disappointing night."

The brothers gave Bulka the affection she deserved and desperately needed. Leaving her home alone so soon after getting her had nearly broken their hearts, but it couldn't be helped. They petted her head, stroked her fur, and told her what a good girl she was. Joe refreshed her food and water dishes and said it was time for showers and bed.

Frank ruffled Bulka's fur. "See you in the morning, girl." Then he disappeared into his bedroom

Joe headed for his room, Bulka right on his heels. Her bed and blanket were in the corner of his room. The rumpled blanket told him she had slept there while he and Frank were gone. Good, he thought, she was settling in, getting used to the house and him and Frank.

Joe took a quick shower, toweled off, and collapsed on his bed. The room was dark and he was tired, ready to fall asleep. He closed his eyes and felt himself drifting off. Bulka padded over to the side of the bed and laid her head on the bed. She stared at Joe for a minute then pushed his hand with her nose.

Absentmindedly, Joe stroked her head. She whimpered and put a paw on the bed. Joe cracked an eye. "What's up, girl?"

Bulka put another paw on the bed and Joe got the message. He rubbed his eyes and propped himself on an elbow. "Are you asking if you can sleep with me?"

A pleading whine was his answer.

"I don't know, Bulka. I have a fiancée. She might not understand about us sleeping together."

He said it jokingly, but in his heart he acknowledged that Bulka had had a rough day with a lot of changes. Changes that would be hard for any living creature to adjust to. On the surface, Bulka seemed to be doing okay. She wasn't freaking out or being aggressive. She hadn't torn up the house while he and Frank were gone.

On the plus side, she'd warmed up to Frank real fast, but underneath there had to be insecurities. She had to wonder why she was with Joe and Frank and in a new house. She had to be wondering about Wayne and where he was. Was she ever going to see him again? Was he ever going to return? Joe wondered those same things himself.

He yawned and sat up. "Okay, girl. Let me get your blanket. Don't want your fur all over the bedspread."

He slid off the bed, scooped her blanket off the doggy bed, and hauled it to the bed. He spread the blanket out nice and straight. Bulka jumped on the bed, tail wagging.

Joe climbed into bed and pulled the sheets and covers over himself. Sleep beckoned and he was ready to give in to it. Bulka circled her blanket, feeling for the perfect spot to lay down. Finally, she found it and curled up next to Joe's hip. He felt her there, the warmth of her body pressing against his side, as he fell asleep.

# # # #

The night was black. One man sat at the steering wheel, twisted in his seat so he could watch the two men in the back of van. They were hunched over in the small space. One man grabbed the woman's wrists and the other grabbed her ankles. They swung her in unison and threw her out of the van. She landed with a heavy thud on the damp grass and lay still. She hoped the men would leave, leave her there, alone, to lick her wounds. Leave her to catch the breath that had been knocked out of her. Her purse came flying out of the van and landed a few feet away.

Connie heard the men laugh.

One yelled, "Thanks for your _service_."

Unwilling _service_ she wanted to scream, but she didn't have the strength nor the bravado. Both had vanished hours ago.

Three men. Three brutal men. They'd plied her with alcohol and then later, much later, forced her into the van where they raped her. She should have known better. The minute they'd cozied up to her in the bar and bought her drinks she should have known nothing good would come from the encounter. Oh, they'd known how to play her. Had to give them credit for that. They'd fawned over her. Called her a sweet, pretty little thing. God, she knew that wasn't true, but heaven help her, she had loved hearing it. When was the last time a man had called her sweet or pretty?

The side door of the van slammed shut, the engine revved, and the vehicle tore away spitting gravel. Small pebbles pelted her bruised skin. She gave up a muffled sob and tears spilled from her eyes. She lay on the wet grass shivering and shaking, thinking of what the men had wanted … really wanted. It wasn't the sex, it was information. They'd wanted to know about the PI her brother Wayne had hired. She'd said she couldn't remember his name.

"Joseph Hardy," they'd yelled at her.

"That spark your memory?" one of the men had yelled in her face, his foul breathe making her want to puke.

She'd shaken her head and feigned ignorance, even though she knew it was a dumb move.

"Where's he staying?" they'd asked, real insistent like.

She'd countered with, "How the hell should I know?"

Then the questions had turned to, what had the PI asked her and what had she told him?

The questions had come rapid fire, the men taking turns asking. She knew then she shouldn't answer and told them she couldn't remember much about Joseph Hardy's visit. She drank a little and did drugs, she said. It messed with her mind. Made is so she couldn't remember stuff.

She curled into a fetal position and cried. The men hadn't liked her vague answers. They'd tried to pry better answers loose with punches and kicks. God, her stomach hurt. Maybe they'd hurt her internally. Things didn't feel right inside of her.

"You bastards!" she screamed at the night sky. Now, she had some bravado. Damn! She cried some more and gingerly pushed herself into a sitting position. She took a deep breath and gasped. Yeah, something didn't feel right inside. Broken rib maybe?

She wiped the tears from her eyes and looked around, saw her purse and crawled to it. Grabbed it and clutched it to her chest. She spotted house lights in the distance. Only one house as far as she could tell. The men had dumped her somewhere beyond the city limits. Out on a desolate, dirt road. She grunted and cried out in pain as she struggled to her feet.

She stood there shaking, tears streaming down her cheeks. She draped her purse around her neck and said a pray, _God, please be with me. I know I don't deserve it, but please, grant me this. Let me make it to that house_.

Slowly, carefully, she started walking toward the house with the lights. Sharp pains pushed her onward. She would make it to those lights so help her God. She would … she would …

Her body tensed in agony with every step she took.

* * *

 _A/N: A big thank you for the reviews on the previous chapter(s). Everyone has interesting thoughts and theories as to the characters and their motivations. :)_


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Connie sat at a small wooden table shoved in the corner of the farmhouse kitchen. She was wrapped in a cozy fleece blanket, yet she still shivered. A large proportioned woman of sixty-five, dressed in a flannel nightgown and robe, placed a cup of tea in front of Connie.

"I added honey to it," the woman said. "How you doing? You still cold? I can get you another blanket."

"I-I'm fine. Thank you." Connie liked the woman and felt safe in her home.

The woman was a retired nurse. Her husband had come home from the hospital yesterday. He'd had bypass surgery and wasn't sleeping well. The woman had been up and down all night getting him pain medicine and herbal tea. That's why the woman was up at two in the morning. That's why the farmhouse's lights were on, the woman had told Connie.

Those lights may have saved Connie's life.

The woman carried another cup of tea to the table and eased her large frame into a chair. Connie felt the woman's eyes on her, examining her. Not in a bad way. In a concerned way. Totally understandable. Connie was covered in bruises. One eye almost swollen shut. Torn clothes and her hair a tangled mass. She had leaned heavily on the older woman when she'd led Connie to the kitchen. The woman had only left Connie for a few seconds to go and get a blanket. She'd wrapped Connie up in it and then made tea.

The tea looked tempting. Steam rose in delicate curls. Connie reached a trembling hand toward the cup and took a sip. It was hot and floral.

The woman spoke gently and kindly, "Sweetie, who did this to you? A boyfriend?"

Tears stung Connie's eyes. "I don't have a boyfriend."

"Then who hurt you?"

Connie sobbed as she told the woman about the three men and how they had forced her into a van and raped her.

There was fire in the woman's eyes when she spoke, "I'm going to call the police right this minute. Those men need to be found and made to answer for what they did to you."

Connie shook her head violently and her whole body shook. "No! Please, no. They said if I called the cops they'd come back and hurt me again. Worse. A lot worse."

The woman's expression told Connie she was trying to be patient with her. Patient, but reasonable. "Sweetie, they just said that to keep you from going to the police. You can't give in to that. You can't let those men get away with this. If you do nothing, those men will attack another young woman. You don't want that on your conscience, do you?"

Connie shook her head and snuck a hand out from under the blanket and wiped the tears from her eyes. God, would she ever stop crying? Would she ever stop hurting? It hurt to breath.

"I have to call the police and you need to be seen by a doctor. I'd take you to the hospital myself, but it's a fifty minute drive to get there and fifty minutes back, not counting the time it'd take to get you admitted. I can't be away from my husband that long." The older woman felt real bad saying that to the young, broken woman sitting at her kitchen table. If her husband wasn't having such a hard night, she would put this young woman in her car and drive her into town. "I can call an ambulance. That would be better anyway. They can get an IV started and get some pain medicine in you."

Connie sobbed, "I-I don't have any money. Don't have any insurance either."

"Sweetie, no hospital is going to turn you away. And there are programs for people who can't afford insurance. There are state programs that cover hospital costs for people down on their luck."

Connie kept moving her head from side to side. "No, thank you. No hospital. And no police. I-I'll drink the tea and be on my way."

The woman looked at Connie as if she were insane. "You can't go anywhere. Not in your condition. And I'm not about to let you leave here by yourself."

Connie lifted her head and met the woman's gaze. There was conviction in the woman's eyes _and_ steel. A whole lot of steel. Connie wasn't leaving this house alone, not unless it was over this woman's dead body.

"Now let's get something straight," the woman said, her voice firm, but tender. "Sweetie, you are in bad shape. You need medical treatment and you need to report your attack to the police. I, Peggy MacDonald, am not about to sit here and let those three men get away with attacking a woman. That's just not going to happen. Not on Peggy MacDonald's watch. I was a nurse for thirty-five years and saw my fair share of abused women. I never, not once, let them leave the hospital without reporting the abuse to a police officer and I'm not about to let you leave my home without calling a police officer."

Peggy stared at Connie for a second then sipped her tea. She set the cup gently on the table. "I'm sorry if I came off a bit forceful, Sweetie. But, well, like I said, I've dealt with abused women before and I learned that if men get away with it, they'll do it again."

Connie wiped her eyes and sniffed. Her nose was running.

Peggy went to the counter, got a box of tissue, and set it in front of Connie. "There, Sweetie. I'm sorry I was hard on you, but it's for your own good. Now, you relax and drink your tea. I'm going to look up the number for the police department."

Connie blew her nose and wiped her eyes. The tears wouldn't stop. Wasn't there an old song, _Cry me a river_? Well, she was certainly doing that.

Peggy was going through the kitchen drawers searching for her phonebook.

Connie didn't want the police. Her attack hadn't been about the rape. Not initially, anyway. The rapes had been an extra benefit. Those men hadn't shoved her in the van to rape her. They'd shoved her in there because they wanted information on Joseph Hardy.

 _Joseph Hardy_.

That's who Connie needed to call. "Miss? Miss Peggy? I-I know an investigator. His card is in my purse. Can you call him for me?"

# # # #

The sound of his cell phone buzzing, jolted Joe awake. The room was dark. Bulka was still on the bed, nestled beside Joe. Her head came up and she looked at him, _what's that noise_?

Joe reached for his phone on the bedside table and checked the number. Connie Marshall. Interesting. He glanced at the bedside clock and saw it was two-thirty in the morning. The dead of night. The time when everyone should be asleep.

Then he remembered what he'd told Connie earlier that day, _please, if you think of anything, anything at all about that Saturday afternoon conversation, or you think of anything else that you suspect might help me with this case, give me a call. I don't care if it's two in the morning._

Well, she'd managed to do that.

He pushed the answer button. "This is Joseph Hardy."

"Oh, thank goodness. You don't know me, Mr. Hardy. I'm Peggy MacDonald and I've got a young lady in my kitchen by the name of Connie Marshall. She says you're an investigator? You're working with the police?"

"Yes, that's true." Joe sat up in bed. He could tell by Peggy MacDonald's voice that all was not well. "Is Miss Marshall okay?"

"No, she's not. She was attacked tonight by three men. Beaten and raped and thrown out of their vehicle a little ways down the road from my house." Peggy was talking fast, giving Joe all the details she had, but her deep concern for Connie came through loud and clear. "She managed to get to my house and I've been trying to get her to let me call an ambulance or the police, but she refuses both. I, she, she needs help Mr. Hardy. She needs medical treatment. _And_ the police."

Joe was off the bed and switching on the light. "I'm on my way, Miss .."

"MacDonald."

Joe yanked his jeans off the top of his duffel bag. "Where do you live, Miss MacDonald?"

Peggy gave him the address.

Joe told her where he was and Peggy said, "From where you are, Mr. Hardy, it should take you about forty, forty-five minutes to get here. And thank you, thank you for coming."

"No problem. I'll be on my way in five minutes. And thank you, Miss MacDonald, for calling me. You did the right thing. I'll call when I'm outside your house."

Joe hung up and headed to Frank's room. Bulka hopped off the bed and padded along in Joe's footsteps.

# # # #

Joe called Connie's phone the moment Frank turned down the long, gravel driveway. Up ahead, the brothers saw the outline of a two story farmhouse. Its outside lights were on, illuminating a large, wraparound porch. Light glowed around curtains in the downstairs windows.

Peggy MacDonald answered Connie's phone. "Hello?"

"It's me, Joe Hardy. My brother and I are here."

"Bless you. Bless you both. I'll meet you at the front door."

By the time Joe and Frank started up the porch steps, the front door was opening.

Peggy stood in the doorway. "She's in the kitchen. Poor thing. She drank some tea, but she's hurting. She's trying to hide it, but I know she's in pain. I was a nurse for over thirty years."

The brothers passed through the doorway and Peggy shut the door. "Follow me."

The brothers followed Peggy to the kitchen. The sight that greeted them was horrifying. Connie looked small and vulnerable in the bright light of the kitchen. She sat in the corner, wrapped in a big blanket, her cheeks wet with tears. Her hair was a mess, her skin pale, and one eye barely open.

Joe was by her side in a second and down on one knee. "Connie, we need to get you to a hospital."

Connie trembled and shook her head. "Take me home, please. Just take me home."

"I will. But only after you've been seen by a doctor." Joe waited for Connie's eyes to meet his. "I won't take no for an answer."

Frank guided Peggy into the living room and quietly questioned her. He introduced himself and gave a little background information on himself and Joe. He told Peggy they were investigating the murder of Connie's mother. Peggy nodded. Connie had mentioned that and it just broke Peggy's heart. How could one person have two horrible events happen without a few days of each other? Some people had the worst luck.

"We need as much information as we can get on Connie's attack," Frank said. "I want to find the men who did this and make sure they spend time behind bars."

That was exactly what Peggy wanted to hear. She told Frank everything Connie had said about the attack. It wasn't much. Frank thanked Peggy and assured her that he and Joe would contact the police as soon as Connie was admitted to the hospital. And yes, they were going to drive her straight there. Frank further explained that he and Joe were working with Detective Ziegler of the Healy Police Department.

Peggy put a hand on her chest and let out a sigh. "I'm so relieved to hear that."

Frank asked Peggy for her full name and phone number in case he had follow up questions. Peggy gladly gave him the information.

Joe and a hunched Connie slowly walked into the living room. Joe's arm was around Connie's shoulders, supporting her. Her purse was flung over his shoulder.

Joe looked at Peggy. "We're taking her to the hospital. Thank you for taking her in and caring for her."

"Wait," Peggy said, "it's cold outside and she doesn't have a jacket. Take the blanket she had."

"But that's your blanket," Connie mumbled.

"It's your now," Peggy said, moving closer to Connie. "It's a gift from me to you. All I ask is that you call me in a day or two and let me know how you're doing." Peggy held Connie's bruised face gingerly in her hands. "Will you do that, Sweetie? Will you call me?"

Connie broke down in tears as she nodded and Peggy pulled her into a motherly hug. Connie laid her head on Peggy's shoulder and sobbed.

"There now," Peggy said as she released Connie. "Let me get that blanket so you three can be on your way."

Peggy retrieved the blanket from the kitchen and wrapped it around Connie.

As Joe led Connie outside, Frank turned to Peggy. "I'll call you once she's been admitted to the hospital."

"Thank you. I was going to ask you to do that." Tears glistened in the older woman's eyes. "Take care of her for me."

"We will," Frank promised and then followed Joe and Connie out the front door.

# # # #

Revenge. A dish best served cold. Or so they said. Well, it was cold tonight. Not freezing, but there was a distinct chill in the air. It was that time of year, early fall, the earth was preparing for winter … an even colder season.

The hour was late. Or early morning, depending on how you looked at it. Most people were in bed enjoying the last few hours of a good night's sleep. He should be in bed. He'd tried, but sleep wouldn't come. It was an elusive mistress. Sleep came when it so desired. He could never quite figure out when she would appear. All he knew for sure was that he often longed for her. The nights he needed her most, she failed him.

Tonight was one of those nights. So, he'd quietly gotten out of bed, thrown on his robe, and wandered his house. What to do? He'd tried everything so many times before. Nothing brought sleep. So, he sat on his living sofa and stewed. Thought about the past. Thought about all the people who had come and gone in his life. Some people he was happy to say good-bye to. Others, he sorely missed.

Dan Sagget wasn't in the missed category.

There were many ways to deal with anger and revenge. Murder was extreme, he would grant you that. But sometimes, murder was the only means a person had to right a wrong. Sometimes, murder was justified. Dan Sagget had committed a crime and, thus, warranted a death sentence.

That death sentence had been carried out efficiently and brutally. No one had shed any tears for Dan Sagget. Most of Healy, if not all of Healy, had said good good-bye and good riddance.

Dolores? Well, she was a tragedy of her own making. Anyone could see that. She had stood by, blind and dumb, and let Dan commit those crimes. Ignorance was no excuse. Not in the court system and not in his mind. Therefore, she was just as guilty as Dan.

Well, they were both gone. Dead. Justice had been served.

So why couldn't he sleep?

One name. Joseph Hardy. Hardy was nosing around, asking questions, poking at things he shouldn't be poking at. One day that young investigator might undercover the truth.

The man breathed in, filled his lungs. Life was full of problems. You thought you solved one then, suddenly, another appeared.

Joseph Hardy was now his problem and he wanted Hardy to go away … _permanently_.

* * *

 _A/N: Thank you for the faithful reviews. You are all much too kind, but I sincerely appreciate that you take the time to leave me a few words._


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

Frank handed Joe a Styrofoam cup. "Coffee from the cafeteria," Frank said. "Plenty of cream and sugar, just the way you like it."

Joe inhaled the aroma. The coffee scent was strong, but so was the cream. "Thanks."

The cup was warm in Joe's hand, a welcome warmth. He and Frank were at the hospital, sitting in the cold, white waiting room. The brothers had been there for over an hour. The amount of time they spent there didn't matter to Joe. He would stay as long as necessary. Connie deserved that. During the drive to the hospital, she had told him about her attackers. Told him how they'd kept asking about him, that's what they really wanted, Connie said, information on him. _What did Hardy ask you? Where's he staying?_

Frank had phoned the police while Joe sat in the back of the SUV talking to Connie. Joe had held her tight and comforted her. Told her she was strong and a survivor and that he and Frank were going to get the men who did this to her. She had sobbed, buried her face in her hands, and nodded her thanks and gratitude.

Frank and Joe had discussed the conversation after Connie was wheeled into an exam room. She was still in there, still being examined and treated. A female police sergeant – Wyman – had arrived, introduced herself to the Hardys and told them not to leave because she had questions for them. Then a nurse took Sergeant Wyman to see Connie. Somewhere down a hall behind a closed door.

Joe had seen the rape kit in Sergeant Wyman's hand. She'd come prepared to collect evidence. The doctor would take semen samples and give them to Wyman. Connie would have to hand over every stitch of clothing she was wearing. Those clothes held a treasure trove of DNA evidence. Joe felt confident Connie's attackers would be caught. He also felt confident he knew two of them.

Connie's descriptions matched two of the three thugs that had attacked Joe Thursday night at the bar, the _Tavern on the River_. Mr. Dumb, the leader, and Mr. Tank. Joe had punched both of them in the throat and left them gagging on the pavement. The third guy, the timid one, hadn't been part of this trio. Maybe he'd decided on a new career path. Good for him if that was the case. However, Mr. Dumb and Mr. Tank had found a _new_ third guy.

"Nicholson's looking for you," Frank said, yanking Joe out of his thoughts. "That's my theory as to why Connie was attacked."

Joe took a careful sip of his coffee. Still hot, almost burned his tongue. "My theory, too. Means Nicholson, and lapdog Deke, haven't found your vehicle or the rental house. I'd like to keep it that way if we can."

A muscle twitched in Frank's cheek. "Healy's a small town. Nicholson's men will eventually find us."

Joe nodded. "Agreed."

Sergeant Wyman and a nurse came walking down the hall. The women spoke in soft tones, each woman's face etched with concern and sympathy. Wyman thanked the nurse and turned to the waiting room. Her dark eyes landed on Joe and Frank and she headed for them at a brisk pace.

"Gentleman," she said, "how 'bout we have a conversation in the hospital's cafeteria? I'd kill for a cup of coffee." Her gaze followed Joe's mouth as he sipped his coffee.

Frank rose and tossed his empty cup in a nearby trash can. "Good news, Sergeant, the coffee's not bad."

Wyman smiled, revealing a beautiful set of teeth. She was short, dark skinned, and in her early forties. "Nice to hear." She glanced at a clock on the wall and mentally registered the time. Five a.m. on a Tuesday. "This day could sure use some good news. Lead the way, gentlemen."

The three decamped to the cafeteria. The place was warm and inviting thanks, in large part, to the smell of bacon and eggs, toast and waffles.

Joe's stomach rumbled and he looked at Sergeant Wyman apologetically. "Mind if I get some breakfast?"

Wyman smiled up at him. "Not at all. I could go for a little something myself."

Over breakfast Wyman interviewed Joe and Frank. The brothers stated their names and phone numbers and related how they had come to know Connie. Joe explained that they were hired by Connie's brother, Wayne Banyan (who was currently in jail), to find Dan Sagget's murderer.

Joe also mentioned his connection to Detective Ziegler and how they were sharing information on the Dan Sagget case.

Wyman murmured that she knew Ziegler – small town and all – and that she was aware of Wayne Banyan's arrest. She jotted notes in a notebook as Joe told her about the three men who had attacked him at the _Tavern on the River Bar_ on Thursday night. He described the three men and Wyman agreed that two of them did indeed sound like the same men who had attacked Connie.

Wyman finished writing and lifted her head. "Why'd these three attack you?"

"I think Nicholson had them following me." Joe watched Wyman's dark face turn sour. "I'd visited Nicholson earlier that day looking for information on Sagget. Sagget had worked for Nicholson for twenty years. Seemed to me Nicholson might know who would want to harm Sagget."

"He didn't, did he?" Wyman's expression was still sour like she'd bitten into a piece of bitter fruit.

Joe grinned. Wyman had no love for Nicholson. "No, he didn't and he made it clear he didn't want me anywhere near his property ever again."

Wyman nodded as she sipped her coffee. "That's Nicholson. Never has any answers and no body's ever welcome at _his_ docks. What made you think those three men were sent by Nicholson?"

"One of them said they'd worked with Sagget. Another said Sagget wasn't the greatest employee. That led me to believe the men worked at the docks." Joe remembered what Mr. Tank had said, _We heard you're ex-Army. Got some brass balls on ya_. Joe decided to leave those comments out of his story. No need to discuss his balls at breakfast or any other time for that matter.

"Yeah, sounds like they worked for Nicholson. Just about everyone in this town works for Nicholson," Wyman huffed and wrote in her notebook.

"The barmaid's name is Wanda," Joe said. "She might know the men's names."

Wyman grinned at Joe like she knew a secret he didn't know. "She might."

Joe arched a brow. "You know Wanda?"

Wyman chuckled. "Oh yeah, know her pretty well. There's been more than one fist fight at the _Tavern on the River_. Wanda's good with faces and names. I'll stop by her house later this morning."

Joe grinned. With any luck, the three men would be in jail before the end of the week.

"Another question," Wyman said slow and easy. "Why would Nicholson want you followed, Mr. Hardy?"

Joe rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Only thing I can figure is, he doesn't want me investigating Dan Sagget's murder. That's the only thing I discussed with him on Thursday morning. Then, Dolores Gage was killed that afternoon. Interesting timing, a murder right after I talked to him." Joe tried to read Wyman's reaction, but her expression remained neutral. "And by Thursday night I had three thugs in my face telling me Dan Sagget's murder was not worth my time investigating. Makes a person wonder what's really going on. Is there something Nicholson doesn't want me, or the police, to find?"

Wyman's nose wrinkled slightly. "I think there's a lot of things Mr. Nicholson doesn't want anybody to find. Lots of secrets surround that man, but you didn't hear that from me."

"Of course not." Joe smiled and drank his orange juice.

Frank leaned forward. "How's Miss Marshall doing? Any word on her injuries?"

Wyman's expression sobered. "She's hurting. She has a broken rib, a body full of bruises and contusions, a black eye, a busted lip, and a couple of cracked teeth." Anger flashed in the sergeant's eyes. Anger at the men. "The doctor also said Miss Marshall is slightly malnourished. Miss Marshall admitted to him, and me, that she drinks too much and doesn't eat real healthy."

"I don't think she has much of an income either," Joe said and, at that moment, he wished he knew exactly what income Connie had. How did the woman support herself?

"No," Wyman said, "I don't think she does."

Frank asked, "How long will she be in the hospital?"

"Doctor's keeping her for the next twenty-four hours. He wants her to have a full round of antibiotics and fluids, and a few good meals, before he releases her. If she's okay tomorrow, and the doctor wasn't optimist about that, he'll release her." Wyman's dark eyes moved from one brother to the other. "Miss Marshall's going to need someone to help her for a few days when she is released. Obviously, her brother's out of the question and her mother was murdered a few days ago." Wyman shook her head at the tragic story. "Do either of you know a family member or friend that I can contact?"

Joe thought it over and said, "She mentioned an Uncle Mike, but she didn't seem fond of him. He's the brother of Miss Marshall's mother so, that would make his last name Mueller. I don't have a phone number or address for him."

Wyman wrote the name in her notebook and closed it. "Thank you, gentlemen. I'm going to check in on Miss Marshall again. I have to collect the rape kit and her clothes. I'll ask her if there's someone she'd like me to contact."

"If she doesn't have anyone," Frank added quickly, "let us know. My brother and I will work something out. We'll find a way to help her. Her brother's our client and we feel an obligation to watch over his sister while he's in jail." Frank glanced at Joe who nodded in agreement.

Wyman eyed each brother curiously. "So, you two don't think Mr. Banyan killed Dan Sagget?"

"No," Joe said firmly.

Wyman gave a noncommittal, "Hmmm." She pushed out of her chair and stood by the table. The brothers did the same.

Wyman pocketed her notebook and waved a hand. "I've got no opinion on the Sagget case. That's Ziegler's territory and I'm happy to leave it to him. As to you gentlemen watching over Miss Marshall, that's very generous of you. She's going to need all the support she can get. The kind of brutality she's gone through is hard on a person. It takes a while, a long while, for a person to recovery from something like that."

Frank was earnest and polite when he said, "We'd like to know of any progress you make in tracking down her attackers."

Wyman studied him for a moment. She suspected Frank and Joe might do a little investigating of their own. After all, they were Private Investigators. "I'll try to keep you guys in the loop, _but_ I expect the same in return." Her gaze landed hard on both brothers and she pointed a manicured finger at them. "You find out anything about the men who did this, I want you to call me ASAP. You hear me?"

Joe felt the heat in Wyman's words. She had a pair of brass balls on her, too. "Yes ma'am," he said and a tiny grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You have our word, we'll call you immediately if we find out anything."

Wyman straightened her jacket and squared her shoulders. "Good, then we're done here. Keep in touch, gentlemen."

Frank watched Sergeant Wyman leave and then turned to his brother. "I'm beat and we need to check on Bulka. We left in a hurry this morning. She's probably going crazy wondering what happened to us."

"Yeah," Joe said, "let's get out of here. I could use a shower and a nap." Two hours of sleep didn't cut it for him. Two hours of sleep didn't even count as sleep. "We can come back this afternoon and see Connie. I think she'd like to see some friendly faces."

As the brothers walked toward the exit, Frank said, "I'll give Peggy MacDonald a call later and let her know Connie will be in the hospital overnight. Miss MacDonald might like to come by and see Connie, too."

"I bet she will." Joe went quiet for a second and then said, "I wonder if Miss MacDonald would be interested in checking in on Connie when she's released from the hospital? I know she still has her husband to take care of, but she's a retired nurse and she seemed really drawn to Connie. She really cares about her." Joe looked at his brother. "What do you think?"

"I think it's something we should talk over with Miss MacDonald. But I'm with you, I think she'll jump at the chance to look in on Connie when she's released. I got the impression Miss MacDonald likes, um, _needs_ people to care for. It's her nature, if you know what I mean."

Joe draped an arm across Frank's broad shoulders as they went through the sliding doors of the hospital's exit. "I know exactly what you mean, Frank."

# # # #

 _The blonde_. He had studied her movements yesterday. That was Monday and he had been in the alley, waiting and watching when, at six a.m., she exited the detective agency via the back door and waved good-bye to her friend. The blonde had dashed up the metal stairs, ducked into her apartment, and snapped on the lights. His blood had heated as he imagined her getting ready for work. Imagined her taking a shower .. water cascading down her body .. over the curve of her hips .. shampoo in her hair .. bubbles and foam sliding over her shoulders and back ..

Yeah, that memory was vivid. Very vivid.

Her aunt and uncle had arrived at seven-thirty and by eight o'clock the uncle was in the office preparing for the day. Predator had moved to the front of the building and spied on him through the windows. It wasn't easy, there was a lot of writing on the windows, advertisements for home and car insurance. Things the Predator would never need.

At eight-fifteen, the blonde and her aunt appeared in the office. Everyone looked happy. Ready to start another week.

The Predator had divided his time between the front of the building and the alley. At ten he'd snuck away for lunch and a pee break. At noon he was seated on the patio of the Italian restaurant across the street, staring at the windows of the _Farmers' Insurance Office_ and the _Endeavor Detective Agency_. The two offices were side-by-side. He could watch both with ease while he sipped an expensive Italian coffee.

The strawberry blonde in the detective agency was all alone, sitting at her desk, typing on a computer. He could see her clearly through the big glass window. No writing obstructed his view. He assumed her partners were out of town, probably in Healy. One of their vehicles, the SUV, had disappeared on Sunday and was still gone.

 _The men were gone._

 _The women were alone._

Predator smiled. The situation was perfect.

Last night, he had been in the alley again. _The blonde_ had hurried down the metal stairs with an overnight case. The back door of the detective agency had opened, revealing the strawberry blonde, smiling, waiting for her friend. The women were spending the night together. Safety in numbers. Not a bad idea, he'd thought. But it wouldn't last, they couldn't be together every minute of every day.

The Predator rolled off the hotel bed and ran a hand over his clean shaven face. A new look. He had a new rental car, too. A sedan, not a truck. He'd ditched the baseball cap and bought new jeans, t-shirts, and a jacket.

He'd bought other things, too, and they were laid out at the foot of the bed. Seeing them, touching them, sent a ripple of anticipation trickling through his veins. He needed fulfilled. He needed this hunt to come to a successful end.

The stun gun was still in its hard plastic wrapper. He'd initially wanted a Taser, but Illinois didn't sell those without a felony background check. Smart of Illinois. Keep those Tasers out of the hands of criminals. Stun guns, the state didn't care about them and they were a lot cheaper than a Taser. The only advantage a Taser had was it could be shot, like a gun, from a distance of fifteen feet. The stun gun, on the other hand, had to be in contact with a person to actually stun them. Fine by him, he planned on being in close, personal contact with _the blonde_ when he stunned her.

He eyed the other items on the bed. Flexi-cuffs for her wrists and Duct tape for her mouth and ankles. Duct tape, the universal tool. People used it for everything from home repairs to kidnapping. Whoever had invented the stuff deserved a Nobel Prize. Not the peace prize of course, but a prize.

He turned from the bed, grabbed his new jeans, and pulled them on. Today was Tuesday, another day of surveillance. He would bring the stun gun and other items. Who knew, he might get lucky. Today might be the day he captured his prey.

* * *

 _A/N: I appreciate your reviews. Thank you seems so inadequate, but it's all I have, so thanks again for taking the time to leave me a few words on your thoughts about each chapter. I also wanted to give a special thank you to the guest reviewer or reviewers. I can't PM guests and wanted to let them know how much I appreciate their indepth reviews!_


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

Vanessa Bender sat at her desk and stared out the front window. She looked past the elegant script on the glass and peered at the patio of the Italian restaurant across the street. It was a windy day and a young, dark-haired employee of the restaurant was rushing from one patio table to another, winding the lever on the umbrella stems and lowering the umbrellas. A Mona Lisa smile curved the corners of Vanessa's lips. She felt for the young man, really she did. He was running himself ragged, tying up those umbrellas before any of the tables took flight. He had to be sweating and swearing. Some of those umbrellas were putting up a good fight.

Well, he was finished now, the last umbrella was tied down. His shirt sleeves and pant legs fluttered in the strong wind as he headed for the restaurant entrance.

It was lunch time and Vanessa was alone in the office. Her aunt and uncle had gone to a nearby café for soup and sandwiches.

"We can bring you something back," Aunt Muriel had said, but Vanessa had politely declined.

Warmed up soup sat untouched on her desk. Vanessa wasn't really hungry. Her mind had wandered a great deal today, straying from the business of insurance to her personal life. Thoughts of her first marriage had intruded at regular intervals. That marriage had not been a happy one. Far from it. Her ex-husband, Bryce, had been abusive. Not at first. In the early days, he'd been the perfect husband; a handsome, respected, New York police officer. He had represented everything she wanted in life: a loving husband with a stable, secure job. Her childhood had not always been stable, or secure, so she'd sought those things in her marriage. Sought for them rather desperately if she was being truthful.

Maybe that had been the problem all along – her obsessive need for security.

She spooned some soup into her mouth and grimaced. It was lukewarm.

Her mind returned to Bryce. The abuse had started around the six-month mark in their marriage. He'd eased into it, starting with snide remarks about her intelligence. The remarks had stung and made her doubt herself. Then came criticisms about her clothes, hair style, and make-up. It seemed he wanted her to dress and look a certain way, like he wanted to change her, make her into someone she wasn't.

That's when the arguments started. Harsh words were exchanged and they had tossed accusations at each other. Said things they never should have said. He accused her of not loving him and she accused him of trying to change her. He let her know – in no uncertain terms – that she was dependent on him. Without him she wouldn't have a roof over her head, an effing bed to sleep in, or food to eat. Those comments had angered her, but the one that had irked her the most was – _Wasn't he paying for her college education? He sure hoped his money was being well spent._

He _was_ paying for her college education. She couldn't deny that. It was all so different. _He_ was so different from the man she had dated and married. In those early days of marriage they had talked it over and he'd encouraged her to finish her college degree. After a year of marriage when she'd only been in college four months, he was complaining about the cost of tuition and her time away from home. Why did she have to spend two goddamn hours at the college library studying for a test? She could do that at home and be with him.

Well, she had tried – at first. She had scheduled her classes during his duty days so she would have the same days off as him. It didn't work out though. He was often called away for a traffic accident, a missing child, a shooting, etc. She reminded him that she never complained once about those times – the times he was called away – she understood it was part of his job.

It didn't make any difference to him. She should _always_ be available to be with him. That's why they had gotten married, wasn't it? So they could be together. He threatened to cancel her classes. To stop payments on checks to the college. Fine, she'd said, she would get a job and pay for her classes. He'd laughed in her face. What kind of job could she get without a college degree? Waitressing? Hell no, he'd said. No wife of his was going to be a waitress. He wouldn't allow it.

That's when she knew she had to leave. Had to end the marriage. It wasn't an equal partnership. He held all the power, or so he thought. She told him she was thinking of moving back in with her mother – just for a short while, just to sort things out, to think things over.

And that was when he hit her. Hard across the face. Her hand had flown to her stinging cheek and she had stared at him with shocked and terrified eyes. If she had had any doubts about leaving, they were erased.

Oh, he'd said he was sorry, didn't know what came over him. He loved her so much and would make it up to her. How about a nice dinner? A nice weekend away?

Was he serious? Did he really think she was that naïve? Out of fear, she had played along, accepted his apology and said she loved him, but secretly she plotted her escape.

She called her mother the next day while Bryce was at work, told her what had happened. Her mother was shocked, too, and insisted Vanessa leave right that minute. She could come live with her. In some ways, Vanessa wished she had listened to her mother, wished she'd packed her bags and left that day. Maybe she'd still been in shock and wasn't thinking straight.

Instead, she'd stayed with Bryce for another three months, just to make sure she told herself. Maybe the slap was a 'one off,' a rare moment of anger. Well, it wasn't, so in that regard, Vanessa was glad she had proved to herself that Bryce was a man she could never trust again. Actually, she came to fear him.

Her mother came through for her. She got Vanessa a job with Aunt Muriel. Muriel was her mother's sister. Muriel and her husband owned an insurance company in River Heights, Illinois and were looking for an office worker. Muriel said she would be more than happy to have Vanessa live with her and her husband and work with them. Vanessa had thanked her mother then quietly packed and left two days later.

Vanessa picked up the soup, took it to the microwave and warmed it up.

Fear had led her to River Heights and fate had brought Joe Hardy into her life. A smile played upon her lips as it always did when she thought of Joe. He was everything to her. He'd given her his heart and she'd done the same in return.

The microwave binged, Vanessa removed her soup, and carried it back to her desk.

She saw Joe for what he was, a wounded warrior. He'd been physically and emotionally scarred in battle. Well, she was wounded and scarred, too, and because of that they understood each other in so many ways that others never could.

He'd once told her that she had brought him back to life. She'd given him a reason to love again. She could say the same about him. He had fought her ex-husband and a buddy. The two had teamed up and cornered Joe in a back alley. That hadn't fazed Joe in the least. He'd crippled the buddy and put Bryce down hard.

A month later, Bryce signed the divorce papers and Vanessa hadn't heard from him since. Perhaps, that chapter in her life was over. She did worry, though, that Bryce might reappear. Bryce didn't like losing. Would he one day decide to even the score with Joe?

It was a small fear that occasionally crept into her thoughts, but recently that small fear that had been replaced by a bigger fear – the man in the truck. She, like Nancy, kept a watchful eye out for the man or the truck. So far, he had not reappeared. Vanessa surmised he had followed Joe and Frank to Healy. It seemed the most logical explanation.

Nancy, however, didn't seem so sure. Over dinner last night she and Vanessa had discussed the man. Nancy thought it possible the man was still around and watching them. Both women agreed that the man was sent on Nicholson's orders.

"Why would Nicholson want to watch us?" Vanessa had asked, genuinely curious.

Nancy had swept a strand of coppery blonde hair behind an ear. "I'm a PI and you're an insurance agent. There are a hundred ways we could be helping Frank and Joe in their investigation. Nicholson might be trying to figure out what those ways are. I'm sure he wants to know any information we come up with." Nancy went still and quiet and chose her words carefully when she spoke. "Or he might simply want to frighten us in an effort to get Frank and Joe to back off."

Vanessa hadn't tried to hide her shock. "Do-do you think he would have us harmed?"

Nancy had shrugged and sipped her wine. "Hard to say. I think Frank and Joe's visit to the container graveyard didn't escape Nicholson's notice and we know it's a place Nicholson doesn't want people – outsiders – visiting."

"It and the white building with the snakes." A shiver had shuddered down Vanessa's spine.

"Any animal will fight back when cornered," Nancy had said. "And right now, Nicholson may feel he's being pushed into a corner by Frank and Joe. They're poking around in places he doesn't want them poking around in and they won't stop, not until they find something or someone stops them."

"You mean until Nicholson stops them."

Nancy had nodded and a long uncomfortable silence, that neither woman was ready to fill, had hung in the air.

Back in the present, Vanessa felt a chill. There might be someone out there, watching and waiting. Nancy had made that very clear. Vanessa appreciated that about Nancy. She didn't sugar coat things, didn't try to minimize the danger. That was good. It forced Vanessa to be cautious and vigilant.

Vanessa suddenly felt vulnerable. Her gaze traveled to the Italian restaurant's patio. She searched each table, but saw no one. It was too windy. She scanned the street. Only a handful of people were out this afternoon and none of them paid any attention to the insurance office.

Vanessa checked the wall clock. Her aunt and uncle would return soon. Good. She felt a strong need for their presence. Why did she feel this way? Why was she uptight and anxious, like she was waiting for an anvil to drop on her head? She shook herself. Living in fear was in her past. She'd done that with Bryce and had vowed never to live like that again.

She ate some soup. It was much better and now she was hungry.

No, she told herself, she wouldn't let fear win.

* * *

 _A/N: Oh dear, sorry about the long delay between postings. I have several other projects I'm working on, not writing projects though. I quilt and sometimes I get very into what I'm quilting. Anyway, a huge thank you to everyone who left a review on the previous chapter and a special thank you to the guest reviewer since I can not respond to you via PM!_

 _I know this chapter was short so I will try my best to update soon. :)_


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

It was one p.m. Frank had been up for almost two hours. He'd fed Bulka and taken her for a long walk. It had felt good to get out and stretch and let Bulka run off pent up energy. The two had explored the neighborhood, checked out all the nice houses set far apart, thus giving home owners plenty of privacy. Frank and Bulka had discovered a small park at the end of the street and spent a good amount of time there playing fetch with her stick. Yep, she still had it, what was left of it anyway. She'd chewed away a large potion, but that didn't mean she liked it any less.

Now, they were back home. Frank laid Bulka's leash on the kitchen counter, bent down, and roughed up her fur. He scratched behind her ears and stared into her liquid brown eyes. "You're a good girl, Bulka. You know that?"

While they were out he had run her through several basic commands: sit, stay, heel, chase, attack, and speak. She had responded instantly and eagerly. Bulka licked his forehead and cheek.

Frank put a hand up to ward off further licks. "Okay, that's enough, girl. We have a visitor coming and I don't want to smell like dog breath." Frank put his hands on his thighs and pushed to a standing position. "And we need to wake Joe. C'mon, this should be fun."

Frank smiled deviously as Bulka, tail wagging, followed him to Joe's room. The door was ajar and Frank pushed it fully open. Joe lay on his side, his back to the doorway. He was sound asleep, resting peacefully. That was about to change, Frank thought, and his smile widened.

He leaned a shoulder against the door frame, crossed his arms, and looked down at Bulka. She sat patiently at his feet, looking up at him, waiting for guidance. Her eyebrows moved up and down, asking silent questions.

Frank chuckled and said, "Speak, girl."

 _Ruff, ruff!_

"Speak," Frank repeated and Bulka barked louder.

 _Ruff, ruff!_

"Thatta, girl. Nice and loud."

Bulka kept barking. She was all about pleasing those who fed and loved her. _Ruff, ruff! Ruff, ruff, ruff!_

Joe's arm shot up and he kicked off the covers. "For crying out loud, what's going on?" He flung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. Then he saw his brother leaning against the doorframe, looking way too relaxed. He was about to give Frank a piece of his mind, a large piece, but Bulka was in his face, licking him. He put his hands up and gently pushed her away. "Okay, okay. I'm happy to see you, too, but I think someone has been leading you astray. Or teaching you bad habits." Joe glared at his brother. "Any particular reason you had Bulka roust me out of a great sleep?"

"Yes, we have a guest coming, Monica LaMarca, the lawyer from Carson Drew's office. She called me at eleven this morning, rousting me from a great sleep. It's one o'clock now so you can thank me for letting you sleep another two hours."

Joe saw the glee in Frank's eyes. Frank had enjoyed his little game. It was great fun having Bulka do his dirty work. Poor dog didn't know she was being used.

"Thank you, big brother, you're so considerate," the sarcasm was heavy. Joe got out of bed and ran his hands down his face. "How much time do I have before this lawyer gets here?"

Frank checked his watch. It was five minutes after one. "Twenty-five minutes. Plenty of time."

Joe sneered at his brother. "Twenty-five minutes? I don't need that much time to get ready. You could've let me sleep another fifteen minutes." Joe turned and headed for the bathroom.

Frank rolled his eyes and shook his head at Joe's retreating form. "I'll remember that for next time."

"No you won't," Joe shot back, over his shoulder, and shut the bathroom door.

Frank looked down at Bulka and wiggled his eyebrows. "Nah, I probably won't. Let's go make some coffee. Looks like Joe could use a cup and our guest might like a one, too."

# # # #

Bulka was at the living room window, her paws on the window sill. She barked the minute the lawyer's car pulled into the driveway. She barked again when the car door opened and a young, professionally dressed woman got out. The woman grabbed a large, flat bag out of the car and shut the car door.

Frank came up beside Bulka, looked out the window, and patted Bulka's head. "You're a good watchdog, Bulka. Now, let's be civil to our guest. No jumping up on her. You got that." He peered into the dog's eyes and hoped his message was understand. He doubted it was, but at least he had tried.

Joe walked into the room, freshly shaved and dressed in a t-shirt and jeans.

Frank walked to the front door and paused. He pointed at Bulka. "Joe, hold her while I get the door."

Joe took hold of the collar of Bulka's harness. "Sit, girl. There, that's a good girl."

Frank opened the door before the lawyer had a chance to knock or ring the doorbell. "Hello, I'm Frank Hardy. You must be Monica LaMarca."

Monica was momentarily startled by the sudden opening of the door, but quickly recovered. She had shoulder length, dark brown hair (nicely styled), and attractive hazel eyes. Her smile was instant and pleasant. "Yes, I'm Monica LaMarca. Nice to meet you Mr. Hardy."

She extended a hand and Frank shook it. Her handshake was firm and straightforward.

"Please, call me Frank."

"Only if you promise to call me Monica."

"I think I can manage that. Please, come in."

Monica stepped into the house and Frank gestured in Joe's direction. "My brother, Joe, and that's Bulka."

Monica smiled at Joe and stepped forward carefully toward Bulka. "I've heard all about you, Bulka," Monica's voice was soft and gentle. "Your owner misses you a bunch and he's very sorry he had to leave you so suddenly. He made me promise I would deliver a gift." Monica opened her large bag and withdrew a baggie filled with dog biscuits.

Bulka whined and stretched her nose toward the baggie. Joe chuckled and released his grip on Bulka's collar. "She loves those. We bought a box of them when we got her."

Monica laughed. "Well, now she has another box. Here, sweetie. You want one." She withdrew a biscuit from the baggie and held it out to Bulka. Bulka gingerly took the biscuit off of Monica's palm and Monica patted Bulka's head. "Awww, you are a sweet girl and well-behaved."

"For the most part," Frank said coming up alongside of Monica. "How 'bout we give Bulka a couple more biscuits and put her in the backyard. That way we can talk in the kitchen without being interrupted."

"Okay." Monica smiled, took two biscuits out of the baggie, and handed them to Frank.

# # # #

Joe, Frank, and Monica were seated around the small table in the kitchen. Each had a cup of coffee in front of them.

Joe picked up his cup. "How's Wayne holding up?"

"Not so well," Monica admitted. "I spent three hours with him this morning and another hour with Detective Ziegler. He says he's working with you and your brother on the murders of Dan Sagget and Dolores Gage."

"Well, he was," Joe said. To be honest, Joe wasn't one hundred percent certain if Ziegler was working with him and Frank any more. "Since he arrested Wayne I haven't heard much from him."

"He seems busy," Monica said almost as if she were making an excuse for Ziegler. "I had to push hard for an interview with him. He finally relented and sat down with me."

"Did he have anything to say about Wayne or the case?" Joe hoped Monica had obtained some information.

Monica shook her head. "No. I can't say Detective Ziegler was very forth coming. His main response was, I'm not at liberty to discuss that."

Joe was disappointed but not surprised.

"Back to Wayne," Frank said. "Did he give you any indication as to why he admitted to wanting to kill Sagget?"

"That's the only reason he's in jail," Joe said, a fierceness in his voice. "He said he _wanted_ to kill Sagget, not that he _actually_ did kill him. Big difference."

A slight grin curled the corners of Monica's lips. She liked Joe's fierce loyalty to his army buddy. She understood that kind of loyalty. "I agree with you and as I said, I spoke with Mr. Banyan for three hours this morning. I believe I know the man a bit better now. I feel I know a little bit of what makes him tick." She watched the brothers exchange doubtful glances. "Oh, I don't pretend to know Mr. Banyan completely and I don't need to. What I mean is, I believe I know, or understand to some degree what motivates him."

"That's good," Joe said, but there wasn't much conviction in his voice.

Monica was undaunted. "Let me lay out my thought process and see if you and your brother agree with it." She glanced at each brother and each man nodded. Monica shifted in her chair and sat up straighter. "Have you ever wondered if Mr. Banyan might have PTSD?"

Joe looked at her like she'd shown up late to class, like she'd missed the whole first thirty minutes of a professor's lecture. "I'd be surprised if he didn't have PTSD," Joe said. "I'm pretty sure I have .. had PTSD. Kind of hard to go through combat and _not_ have it."

Monica pursed her lips. "I'm sure that's very true. Not all combat veterans need extensive counseling and therapy after a tour in Afghanistan, but the cold, hard facts are that a good many of them do."

Joe nodded. "True, but what does this have to do with Wayne?"

"Have you heard of something called moral injury?"

Joe frowned. "No."

"Not many people have," Monica conceded. "I'll try and explain the difference between PTSD and moral injury. PTSD – post-traumatic-stress-disorder – is an involuntary, biological response to a terrifying event such as combat. A soldier under attack experiences extreme fear, helplessness, and anxiety. All they're thinking is, will I survive this attack? That extreme fear doesn't always go away as I'm sure you know." She looked directly at Joe. "A person with PTSD will have nightmares in which they relive the terrifying event. Some people tend to isolate themselves after a traumatic event. They don't want to be around others who remind them of combat. The most common symptoms of PTSD are irritability, jumpiness, and difficulty concentrating."

"I'm well aware of all of this," Joe said flatly. He was ready for Monica to get to the point.

Monica cleared her throat. "Ahem. Sorry, I tend to go on a bit too much at times."

"Moral injury is different?" Frank said, leaning forward. "How?"

Monica gave him a grateful look. "Moral injury is the sudden, terrible reality of war. A soldier's innocence isn't so much as lost in combat as it is transformed into a heightened sense of morality. The symptoms are similar to PTSD. Insomnia, nightmares, memory issues, and startle reflex, but the root cause is different and so is the treatment. Moral injury is less about fear and more about grief and guilt. A soldier with moral injury feels bitter about his time in combat, about fighting a war no one seems to care about anymore. He feels guilty about going home while his buddies stay behind."

Joe's gaze sharpened. _That_ particular feeling he knew all too well.

Monica continued, "PTSD is all about danger and fear – the realization, _I could have died_. Moral injury is about, well, immoral acts, such as killing."

"Killing?" Joe's gaze was cold and hard.

"Yes," Monica said. She had an open and agreeable expression, but Joe searched her eyes and saw flickers of sadness. "Listen, I was never in combat. I don't know what it's like to be in a firefight. However, my husband does. He served two tours, one in Iraq and one in Afghanistan. I remember him asking me how he was supposed to feel about killing people. I know they're the enemy, he said, but at some level it still feels wrong to kill another human being.

Monica shifted her focus from Joe to Frank. "That's moral injury," she said. "When a soldier begins to question his morality, his definition of what's right and wrong .. even in war."

There was a long silence and then Joe said, "I understand the feeling. I felt it while I was in Afghanistan. After an attack, I'd ask myself, did they – the enemy – did they have a girlfriend, a wife and kids? Sometimes, I felt bad about killing them, taking them away from their friends and family. They were fighting for what they believed in just like me. I'd ask myself, who's right? Them or me?"

The angles of Monica's face softened and she locked eyes with Joe. "My husband said almost the exact same words."

Joe's heart was heavy. "At the time, I never told anyone how I felt. I thought those feelings made me weak."

"No," Monica said. "They made you human."

Frank let a moment of silence pass and then asked, "How does this relate to Wayne?"

Monica tilted her head and eyed Frank beneath long, black lashes. "I believe he's suffering from moral injury. He has thought so long and so hard about killing his stepfather that he feels responsibility for the man's death even if he didn't commit the murder himself. I got the impression that Wayne _wants_ responsibility for Dan Sagget's death."

"But he didn't kill him," Joe said, not as forcefully as he would have liked. He felt he was asking more than stating a fact. It should be the other way around.

"No, I don't believe he killed Sagget or Dolores Gage," Monica said simply. "Wayne admitted to me that he has memory problems and they have caused him to question himself lately. He's in a bad way right now. This arrest has pushed him to the breaking point. I've recommended a complete and thorough psychiatric evaluation before this case goes to trial. _If_ it goes to trial."

Here, here, Joe thought. He said, "I don't think this case has enough evidence – circumstantial or otherwise – to go to trial."

"No," Monica agreed, "I don't believe it does either and if you want my opinion, I don't think Detective Ziegler thinks it does. He's merely following his superior's orders. The Police Chief wanted an arrest and he got an arrest. It looks good in the papers and on TV."

Frank said, "It won't look good for the Police Chief when Wayne is proven innocent."

Monica's expression turned grim. "That's true, but I'm not concerned with the Police Chief. It's Mr. Banyan's well-being that concerns me. I fear a trial will brand him a dangerous man. The court may well find that he is not the killer yet claim he is still a danger to society. The citizens of Healy might decide they don't want him roaming their streets."

Joe's brow bunched into a tight knot. "You really think that could happen?"

"I do. How many times has an innocent man gone on trial, been proven innocent, yet doubt and suspicion followed him the rest of his life?"

"Too many times," Frank said. "That's why we," he indicated himself and Joe, "need to find the real killer. It's the only way to prove Wayne's innocence beyond a shadow of a doubt."

"I agree." Monica smiled slightly. "I'm sorry, but I take accusations against former service members very seriously. I come from a long line of veterans and like I said, my husband is a former service member. I assure you, I will not let Mr. Banyan down."

Joe felt a lump form in his throat. "Thank you. I, um, Frank and I appreciate that. Wayne and Bulka do, too."

"One last thing," Frank said. "It's a question of how much your services cost. Wayne doesn't have a large income."

Monica's lips parted in a beautiful smile. "Mr. Drew, like any law firm, does a number of pro bono cases per year. At the moment, Mr. Banyan's case is listed as pro bono. Mr. Drew, however, reserves the right to change his mind should we find Mr. Banyan guilty."

"Works for me," Joe said. "And just for the record, I don't think you're going to find Wayne guilty." He said it with conviction now.

"No, I don't think we will," Monica said. She rose and helped the brothers clear the table. Afterwards, she gave them a card with her phone numbers and email address. On the back of the card she wrote the name of the hotel she was staying at. She handed the card to Frank. "I think that covers all the bases."

Frank glanced at the card. "I think it does. You have my phone number and you obviously know where we're staying so I think we're even."

Monica chuckled, grabbed her handbag off the floor, and her jacket off the back of the chair. "Well, gentlemen, I'm off. I still have some work to catch up on and then I'm calling it a night. I was on the road at three this morning so it's been a very long day for me."

Frank led Monica to the door. "If you need anything, give us a call," he said.

"Thanks, I'll do that."

"Well," Joe said once the door was shut, "moral injury. What do you think, bro?"

"I think it's something I'm going to look into. But to answer your question more precisely, I think it fits Wayne and his actions."

"I like her." Joe hitched a thumb at the door. "She's a go-getter."

Frank smiled at his brother. "She's intelligent, articulate, tenacious, and knows her facts. She's exactly what Wayne needs in a defense attorney."

"Couldn't agree more," Joe said. "I'm feeling better about Wayne's defense now."

"Me, too," Frank agreed.

"Do you think we should have told her about Connie so she could tell Wayne?"

Frank thought about it and shook his head. "No, if Monica's right and Wayne's near the breaking point, he doesn't need that added to his shoulders."

"Yeah, you're probably right."

* * *

 _A/N: Surprise, a quick update! I'll try to keep the chapters coming. I know many of you are looking forward to what happens to Vanessa and Nancy. We'll get there. ;) Thanks for the reviews._


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 27

Bulka dropped her stick – what was left of it – at Frank's feet. Her tongue hung from her mouth and she was panting. She, Frank, and Joe were in the backyard of the rental house. Joe watched as Frank picked up the stick and heaved it toward the edge of the river. Bulka tore after the stick like her life depended on it. She and Frank had been playing this game of fetch for ten minutes.

Joe marveled at the dog's stamina and Frank's patience. Joe was on his cell phone talking to Detective Ziegler. Joe had wanted to check-in with Ziegler before he and Frank left for the hospital to visit Connie.

Ziegler was full of good news and bad news. The good news was that he had been to the shipping container graveyard last night and had talked to a few of the hobos. Bad news, however, was that the conversations were brief and unproductive. Sure, some of the hobos had said men had gone missing, but that was kinda par for the course for hobos. Hobos were drifters by nature. None of them stayed in one place for long, not more than a year or two. Well, except Colonel Charles. Everyone agreed that he had been there, in the container graveyard, for many years. No one could say for sure how many years.

Joe thought that might be a significant piece of information. "What about the guy with the gray beard?" Joe said to Ziegler. "You talk to him?"

"I asked around, Hardy. No one's seen him since you and your brother were there. According to Colonel Charles the guy's name is Tommy Sims. The Colonel spoke highly of him, said they were buds, but that Sims had seemed depressed lately and had been going off by himself a lot."

A sick feeling settled in Joe's stomach. "No one's seen him since, what was it, Sunday night?"

"As far as I can tell," Ziegler said.

Joe didn't like hearing that, that Mr. Beard – Tommy Sims – was missing. Could he have taken off? Just up and left? Sure, happened all the time with hobos. But Joe had gotten the feeling from Sims that he was committed to finding out what had happened to his missing buddies.

"Glad you checked it out," Joe said into his phone and thanked Ziegler for the info. He pushed the end button and stared into the distance, thinking. What had he expected? Colonel Charles wasn't going to admit anything to a police detective. Joe had hoped that one of the other hobos would have been more cooperative, given more information, but apparently that hadn't happened. And now another hobo was missing – Mr. Beard.

Joe shifted his focus to Frank who was being chased by Bulka. They were having a good time running around the yard, tiring each other out. Frank teased Bulka with the stick. Maybe not the smartest move. He waved it in the air and held it out, begging her to snatch it out of his hand.

"Here, girl. You want your stick?"

No body waved a stick in front of Bulka's nose and got away with it. She clamped down on one end, twisted her head, and jerked. Tried to wrest the stick from Frank's hand. He held tight to the other end and now, man and dog were locked in a classic tug-of-war.

Bulka planted her paws, claws digging into the grass, and growled. She was determined to reclaim _her_ stick. The growls grew less playful by the second and more adamant.

Frank saw the sparks in Bulka's eyes. The game was over. This was a real test of wills, a real fight for the stick. Frank let go of his end and promptly fell on his ass.

Joe shook his head and chuckled. "Not your most graceful move, bro."

Frank, duly chagrined, pushed himself off the ground and dusted off the seat of his pants. "Yeah, didn't plan that out very well, did I?"

"Can't say that you did," Joe admitted. He was still thinking about Mr. Beard.

"What'd Ziegler have to say?" Frank asked.

"Not much. The Colonel and hobos were tight lipped. There was one piece of news and it's not good."

Frank's brow creased and the corners of his mouth curved down. "What's that?"

"Mr. Beard, AKA Tommy Sims, hasn't been seen since Sunday night, the night we were there and he talked to us."

Frank's eyes narrowed with concern. "You're right, that's not good news."

Joe shrugged and held out his hands. "Sims could've taken off. He could've decided to hit the road."

Frank's face scrunched up and he shook his head. "I don't think so. He was scared that night. I saw the fear in his eyes. It was clear he was taking a big risk following us and talking to us. He did that because he wanted someone to know about the missing men. It seemed to me he wanted to do right by his friends."

Joe sighed. "Yeah, I sensed the same thing. Sims definitely wanted someone to look into those disappearances. He most likely put his life in danger by talking to us. I'm positive the Colonel has eyes and ears all over that graveyard. It probably didn't take long for him to hear about Beard meeting us that night."

Frank nodded slowly. "Yeah, the Colonel knows everything that happens in that graveyard and more importantly, he _controls_ everything in that graveyard. I highly doubt he'd appreciate Sims talking to us. That was done behind the Colonel's back." Frank didn't have to add, and without the Colonel's permission.

"That's what's got me worried," Joe said. "I don't think the Colonel takes kindly to people who disobey or go off on their own."

"Yeah," Frank said. "The Colonel might be tempted to …"

"To make a person disappear?" Joe said finishing the sentence. His eyes met Frank's. "I know we're both thinking it."

Frank nodded in grim agreement.

Joe rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "There is a chance Sims left of his own accord. If he's afraid of the Colonel he could be laying low somewhere."

"Could be." Frank did not sound convinced. "Still, I'd like to know where Sims is. I had the impression he wanted us to keep in touch with him."

"I got the same impression," Joe said. "And that's why I think we should pay Colonel Charles another visit tonight. We go in under the pretense that we have more information on the murder-for-hire we want him to do for us, well, for our 'alleged' client in Chicago." Joe hitched a thumb at Bulka lying in the grass chewing on her stick. "We'll take Bulka with us."

Frank grinned. "She'll go crazy with all the smells down there."

"Be good for her," Joe said. "You never know, her nose might come in handy."

"It might," Frank agreed. He wondered exactly what that nose would find.

"Okay, then we're all set for tonight," Joe said. He was suddenly anxious to get back to the graveyard. This time with Bulka. She might pick up a scent. She might lead them to something important.

"But first," Frank said, "we have to head over to the hospital and check on Connie."

"Right. I hope she's doing better."

"Me, too." Frank whistled softly at Bulka. "C'mon, girl. Time to go in. You have to stay in the house while we're gone."

Bulka lifted her head and when she saw both brothers beckoning her, she hefted her stick in her mouth, got up, and trotted behind them and into the house.

# # # #

Frank insisted they buy flowers. "Connie's hurting and she's in pain. Flowers will cheer her up," he said.

Joe agreed with the sentiment. "Yeah, flowers are nice. Women like flowers."

He and Frank were in the hospital's teeny, tiny gift shop. It was crammed with glass shelves filled with breakable items. Joe felt like the proverbial bull in a china shop. Any second he was going to turn the wrong way and knock something off a shelf. "Hey, get whatever you want," he said. "I'll wait in the hall."

Frank gave Joe a questioning look.

Joe pulled at the neck of his t-shirt. "It's-it feels a little tight in here," he said and hurried out the door.

Frank shrugged and went back to viewing the assortment of flowers. He picked out a lovely vase of rose lilies and paid for them.

"The flowers look nice," Joe said when Frank exited the shop carrying the vase.

"Hopefully, Connie will like them," Frank said and the men started walking toward the wing with the patient rooms.

# # # #

Peggy MacDonald was saying good-bye to Connie when the brothers entered the room.

Peggy turned and smiled at the Hardy brothers. "Well, look who's here, Connie. Two very handsome men and I believe they have something for you." Peggy's eyes twinkled as she winked at Connie propped up in bed.

Frank handed the flowers to Connie. "Just a little something from my brother and me. We hope you're feeling better." She didn't look better. If anything, she looked worse, but that was the nature of bruises.

"They're-they're beautiful." Connie held the flowers gingerly. "I-I don't deserve .."

Peggy saw the tears well in Connie's eyes. The poor thing was overwhelmed by the simple act of a get-well gesture. Peggy cut in in a soothing voice, "There, there now. Aren't those flowers gorgeous? And how very thoughtful of Frank and Joe to get them for you."

"Y-yes and I love them. But they shouldn't have."

"We wanted to," Frank said quickly. "We wanted to get you something to cheer you up, to help you feel better while you're here."

Connie nodded weakly. Peggy took the flowers gently from Connie's trembling hands and set the vase on the side table.

Peggy smiled. "They're close enough you can smell them and see them all day and night."

Joe stepped next to the bed and placed his hands on the bed railing. "Frank and I are here for you. We're going to see you through this, we're going to catch the men who did this and make them pay."

Peggy held up an index finger. "Guys, someone may have beaten you to that."

Frank turned and frowned at Peggy. "Who?"

"Sergeant Wyman," Peggy said. "She was here earlier, brought photos for Connie to look at. A photo lineup."

"I-I picked out two men," Connie said quickly and wiped the tears from her eyes. Identifying her attackers seemed to give Connie a bit of courage and confidence.

"Sergeant Wyman said those were the two men she had suspected and that a bartender had given her their names." Peggy glanced from Frank to Joe. "Wyman said she talked to you two this morning. That one of you had been attacked by the same men?"

"Me," Joe said. "I was attacked Thursday night by three men. From the descriptions Connie gave me, I figured two of the men were the same ones I'd had a run in with. That's why," guilt rose up hard and fast and he paused to take a breath, "that's why I feel responsible for Miss Marshall's injuries. Those men were looking for me. They hurt Miss Marshall in order to try and find me. They thought she knew where I was staying."

Peggy looked horrified. "Oh, I see. B-but why are they looking for you, if you don't mind my asking?"

Joe didn't mind at all. "Those men work for Kyle Nicholson. You know who Kyle Nicholson is?"

"Everyone knows who Kyle Nicholson is," Peggy said. There was a note of disapproval in her tone. "Well, anyone who's lived in Healy for more than a year."

"So I've heard." Joe's jaw clenched like he'd bitten down on a piece of hard candy. "I'm investigating the murder of one of his workers, Dan Sagget, and for some reason Nicholson doesn't like that. He's trying to get me to stop my investigation. My theory is he sent those men to scare me off the case. As you can see, it didn't work. I'm still here and I'm still investigating."

Peggy appeared confused. "I thought you and your brother were investigating the murder of Connie's mother?"

"We are," Frank said. "The two cases are related. We suspect the same killer murdered both people."

Joe explained, "At one time, Dan Sagget and Connie's mother were husband and wife."

Peggy nodded slowly. "I see. Well, I hope you find this killer soon."

"So do we," Frank said.

Joe's gaze fell upon Connie. She looked scared. All this talk of murder, her mother and her step-father, and she was right in the middle of it. She had to be wondering if she was next on the killer's list.

Joe wanted to relieve Connie of some of her fears. "Frank and I are going to make sure Connie has a safe place to go when she's released from the hospital and that she has someone to look after her. She shouldn't be left alone."

Peggy cleared her throat. "Funny you should mention that. I was telling Connie – just before you and your brother arrived – that she can come and stay with me. I've got a guest room that's just begging for someone to use it." The older woman smiled down at the frail woman in the hospital bed. "Like I said earlier, I'd love for you to stay with me for a while. My husband's already approved it. He said I need someone else to care for besides him. He says I'm driving him crazy checking on him all the time, taking his temperature and fussing over him. He needs someone to relieve the pressure."

Peggy laughed at her joke and the brothers smiled.

"I like the idea," Joe said. "I'm just a little worried about security."

"Oh, don't worry about that," Peggy assured him. "We've got security cameras all around the house and property. That's how I knew to answer the door when Connie knocked. I could see her on the video. She was out there on my doorstep shaking and shivering. I could tell she was in a bad way."

Joe looked at Frank.

"Sounds good to me," Frank said. "Sounds like Connie will be safe with you Mrs. MacDonald. My brother and I can help with groceries and medical supplies."

Peggy shook her head and held a hand up. "No, no, no. I got this handled. You boys just worry about catching the killer and I'll take care of Connie."

Joe grinned at Peggy. "I don't think we can turn down an offer like that."

"Then it's settled," Peggy said. She reached out and took Connie's hand in hers. "It's final, dear. You're coming home with me when the doctors release you."

Peggy looked genuinely happy. She, the eternal caregiver, was never happier than when caring for someone.

Connie looked ready to cry again, woefully unaccustomed to all the outpouring of love and concern. But she'd take it. Lord yes, she would take it.

The brothers left the hospital in an optimistic mood, well in regards to Connie. Her after care was in the hands of Peggy MacDonald. Connie couldn't ask for anyone better. The brothers would check in on her with daily phone calls and a visit when they could manage it.

The brothers approached Frank's vehicle. Joe stopped and said, "I'd like to swing by the police station and see Sergeant Wyman. I'd like a look at that photo lineup to see if I ID the same men Connie did."

"Good idea," Frank said.

# # # #

Sergeant Wyman closed the door to her office and motioned Joe and Frank into chairs in front of her desk. Joe scanned the office as he took a seat. The place was neat and tidy with a few feminine touches. Family photos on a bookcase shelf told Joe that Wyman had a husband and two daughters.

Wyman sat behind her desk and directed her statement at Joe, "I was going to call you, Mr. Hardy, about that photo lineup. I'd like you to take a look at it, too. Connie Marshall picked two men out without hesitation. I got their names from Wanda the bartender."

Wyman smiled at the mention of Wanda. Joe suspected the two women had worked together on other bar fights or altercations.

"The men weren't hard to find," Wyman said. "Wanda even had a partial address for one of them."

"Do they have a criminal record?" Joe said.

Wyman put her forearms on her desk. "Nothing serious, mostly bar fights. That's why they're in the system. I think what you're really asking is, do they work for Nicholson?"

Joe smiled. Wyman was very perceptive. "You read my mind," he said.

Wyman returned the smile. "They do. They're dock hands. Both say they've worked on the docks for about a year."

Frank cocked his head. "You've had a chance to interrogate them?"

Wyman's mouth twisted as she gave a dismissive shook of her head. "Not really. I asked a few brief questions when we arrested them. You know; name, date of birth, place of employment."

Frank and Joe nodded, both quite familiar with the routine.

Wyman continued, "They're being booked now. My partner and I will do indepth interrogations this afternoon."

Joe dug his notepad and pen out of his jacket pocket. "Can I have the suspects' names?"

Wyman paused and an eyebrow rose. "Any reason you need those, Mr. Hardy?"

"I have a theory where these guys might have been before they were hired on at the docks. My brother and I are doing interviews this afternoon, we can mention these guys' names and see if something interesting comes to light."

Wyman narrowed her eyes and studied Joe for a full thirty seconds. "You know what, let's see if you can ID the perps in the photo lineup first. You ID them, then you get their names. Sound fair?"

"Sounds fair." Joe hoped like hell he could ID the men.

He did ID them, like Connie Marshall, without hesitation. It was Mr. Dumb, the leader of the trio who had attacked Joe, and Mr. Tank. Real names: Gerald Harris and Clay Peters. Those names were burning a hole on the notepad in Joe's pocket. He and Frank were in the SUV and headed to the rental house to eat, play with Bulka, and prepare for their evening adventure. The shipping container graveyard and Colonel Charles awaited.

Joe was also going to run Bulka through a few drills before they left. He wanted her back in tune with her Army training. It didn't look like she'd forgotten it, but Joe wasn't taking any chances. Tonight was serious busy. Colonel Charles was a dangerous man with dark secrets and Joe wanted Bulka on high alert. No telling what trouble lurked at the graveyard.

Frank wheeled the SUV into the driveway and killed the engine. He turned to Joe who had been silent during the drive from the police station to the house. "So, what's your thoughts on Harris and Peters?"

Joe ran his tongue around the inside of his cheek. "I think they were hobos before they went to work on the docks. I'd like to run their names by Colonel Charles and see what kind of a response we get."

Joe saw curiosity flash in Frank's eyes. "Should be interesting," Frank said.

"Should be," Joe agreed

Both men got out of the SUV and headed for the house.

* * *

 _A/N: Thank you dear readers for the reviews on the previous chapter. Wish I could post faster, but I have other things going on. One is my upcoming vacation! I'll be leaving in a few days so, sadly, there won't be another update for a month. :( I'll get back to writing and posting when I return. :) Take care everyone and thanks again for the reviews!_


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29

It was night and the sky was dotted with stars. Bulka was in her car carrier in the back of Frank's SUV. She knew she was going on a mission. Joe had made that clear by the drills he'd put her through in the backyard earlier in the day. He hadn't let her skate by either. He had demanded her full attention and had expected her to perform just as if she were in the Army again. He wanted her to execute a command on the first signal, not the second or third.

At first, she had resisted. The orders and drills had brought back bad memories of a far off place where explosions had happened. The memories had made her anxious and she'd whined a lot. When that didn't halt the drills, she'd laid on the grass, ignored Joe, and instead, focused on Frank. She'd gone over to him, bumped his thigh with her head, gave him her sad eyes, and licked his hand. She'd even tried to get him to play fetch with her. The tactic hadn't work. Frank had given her the same commands as Joe had and with the same expectations.

Finally, Joe had sat on the grass next to her and patted her, stroked her fur, and scratched behind her ears. He'd talked in a soft, affectionate tone. The kindness in his voice had calmed her. He had talked for a long time and although, she had not understood his words, she had understood the meaning. _He needed her_.

They were going to be a team again just like in that far off place that she didn't want to remember. He was going to protect her and she was going to protect him just like in the Army. And because she loved Joe and she knew he loved her, she would do this for him. She would work hard for him.

The SUV came to a stop and Bulka heard the doors open. A moment later, Joe opened the back of the SUV and let her out of her carrier. She hopped down onto the dirt ground. Trees and bushes were nearby. This was a new place with new smells. She lifted her head, opened her mouth, and breathed in the scents. The smell of pine trees and juniper bushes flooded her sensitive nose. The faint smell of smoke from a small fire made her nose twitch. Her sharp ears picked out distant voices. Humans were somewhere in those trees.

Bulka looked up at Joe. _What now, boss?_

Joe leaned down, patted her head, and said, "Seek."

Bulka knew what that meant. _Find the bad guys_.

She put her nose to the ground and sniffed. Traces of human scent excited her and the fur on her back rose. Men had walked here, however, it was long ago. Bulka followed the scent for a few steps and then it was gone. She lifted her head, cocked her ears and listened to those distant voices. Whispers on the wind. But she had a direction and took off, slinking between trees and shrubs. Joe and Frank followed in her wake.

# # # #

Joe didn't have Bulka on a lead. She was free to roam in any direction she chose. So much easier this way, he thought as he followed Bulka. She was trained to pick a path that allowed a grown man to follow her. Yes, so much easier than him and Frank tromping through the woods in the dark tripping over roots and rocks while searching for the hobos.

Joe was positive Bulka had picked up a scent and would lead them straight to Colonel Charles.

The brothers had not parked in the same area as before. Frank said the Colonel would have the original parking area under surveillance just waiting for him and Joe to come back. So the brothers had chosen a different area, one closer to the shipping container graveyard. The new area offered several advantages. Number one, Frank's SUV was hidden from cars traveling the highway. Second, the brothers had less distance to walk to the graveyard. Third, and perhaps the most important reason, Joe felt this area was likely frequented by hobos looking for a ride into town. That meant plenty of human scents for Bulka to find and, apparently, she had found them.

Twelve minutes later, after a bloody encounter with a thorn bush that Bulka missed and Joe didn't, the brothers came upon the hazy glow of a campfire. Joe wiped his bloody hand on his jeans and halted Bulka. She promptly sat at his side and awaited further instructions.

The brothers could smell the smoke. The actual fire and people were hidden behind tall shrubs.

"Just like last time we were here," Frank whispered. "I bet the Colonel and others are gathered around that fire."

Joe listened for a moment. "Yeah, I hear voices." He tucked his scratched and throbbing hand inside his unzipped jacket and laid it on the butt of his holstered Beretta. He turned to Frank. "You ready to go in?"

"Sure." Frank's right hand rested on the Beretta holstered at his hip.

"Then let's do this." Joe signaled Bulka to follow him. He would walk point now.

Bulka fell in line behind Joe and Frank took up the rear.

The three crept forward not being careful about noise. Joe had no desire to totally surprise the Colonel. This was supposed to be a friendly visit. Well, hopefully.

Bulka's low growl stopped Joe in his tracks. He went into a crouch, followed the direction of Bulka's glare, and scanned the bushes. Someone was out there, behind one of those bushes, watching them. Joe reached over and patted Bulka's head. "Good job, girl. It's okay, they won't hurt us. C'mon, let's keep going."

Joe rose and withdrew his Beretta, for good measure. He saw that Frank had done the same and they proceeded on. He heard someone scurrying through the bushes, no doubt headed to the campfire to tell Colonel Charles they had visitors.

The brothers and Bulka came around the shrubs and looked into the eyes of several hobos and Colonel Charles. All appeared to be awaiting for the arrival of the Hardys. Sparks from the campfire mixed with the heavenly stars and the glow of the flames illuminated eight bearded and ragged men.

Colonel Charles stood apart from the group of eight. A man stood at the Colonel's side. Perhaps, a trusted confidant. Someone to replace Tommy Sims? It appeared the new man and the Colonel had been discussing something.

Colonel Charles smiled and his teeth flashed in the moonlight. "Well, well, well. If it isn't Starsky and Hutch." Amusement laced the Colonel's tone.

Joe wondered if the man standing next to the Colonel was the one he'd heard dashing through the bushes.

Frank holstered his gun and stared directly into the Colonel's coal black eyes. "We've come with more information about the job we talked to you about last time we were here."

The Colonel threw back his head and laughed like he was enjoying a good joke. Joe and Frank looked at each other and frowned. Neither of them liked the laugh. They sensed they were the butt of a joke.

Bulka barked and growled. Seemed she didn't like the laugh either.

The Colonel's dark gaze fell upon the dog and his eyes narrowed. The smile fell from his face. "Brought a dog with ya, huh?"

Joe surveyed the hobos standing around the fire. No one appeared threatening. He slid his gun back into its holster. "She's a Military Working Dog."

"That so," the Colonel said with feigned disinterest.

Joe gave Bulka a hand signal and she quieted down.

Frank holstered his gun and said, "I'd like to know what was so funny."

The Colonel smiled and Joe noticed the man's teeth again. They were great teeth. Too great. Joe wondered how a hobo living in a tumbled down graveyard, eating whatever slop he ate, living – supposedly – without medical care, had such great teeth?

"You two. That's what's so funny," the Colonel said bringing Joe out of his thoughts. "Y'all dumb enough to come round here again with that phony story. I know there ain't no client in Chicago. You boys are detectives."

Okay, so the cat was out of the bag, Joe thought. No need to deny the truth. "Fine," he said, "so we're detectives. Do you know why we're really here?"

The Colonel's brow rose and fell. "I might."

"Enlighten us," Frank said. He noticed that the other men hadn't moved. They had stayed clustered together at the other side of the fire, occasionally whispering to each other.

The Colonel turned to the Hardys and Joe suddenly realized the Colonel was a very large man. A very big, strong, powerful man. A vein pulsed in his thick neck. "You two are investigating the death of an employee of Mr. Nicholson's. Least that's what I've heard through the grapevine."

"The grapevine," Frank mocked. "This grapevine wouldn't be called Deke Boxberger by any chance, would it?"

The angles of the Colonel's face hardened and Joe took an involuntary step back. "I know all about you two." The Colonel didn't sound please by what he knew. "And it'd be smart if you two just turned around and got yourselves outta here."

Joe waved a hand. "Whoa, hold on a minute. Okay, so we misrepresented ourselves when we were here earlier. Sorry about that, but you're right, we are investigating the death of one of Mr. Nicholson's employees. What's the harm in that? We're trying to find a killer."

The Colonel shook his head in a manner that indicated Joe was too dumb to understand simple logic. "Like I said, best thing you two can do is get the hell outta here." He jutted his chin at the eight men standing a few feet away. "Ain't that right fellers?"

The men looked at each other, shrugged, and nodded agreement. Some more reluctantly than others.

Not a ringing endorsement, Joe thought. He would have liked to talk to some of those men privately, but the way things were going tonight it didn't seem possible. By the looks of things, the Colonel had a tight grip on the hobos and none were likely to step out of line.

"One question," Frank said. "Last time my brother and I were here there was a different man by your side. We've learned his name is Tommy Sims. We'd like to talk to him. Is he around?" From the corner of his eye, Frank watched the men at the other end of the fire shuffle uncomfortably.

The Colonel shook his head. "Can't help you with that. Sims took off a day ago. No one's seen him since."

The Colonel shot his fellow hobos a warning glare. It wasn't hard for Joe to interpret the meaning behind the glare. _Nobody had better say otherwise if they valued their existence_.

Frank asked another question, "Did Sims take his stuff with him?"

The Colonel's head snapped round and his dark eyes bored into Frank's. "What?"

Frank's jaw was set as if made of iron. He stared, unflinchingly, back at the Colonel. "It's a simple question. Did Sims take his stuff? You know, sleeping bag, clothes, personal items. Things like that. Or did he leave his stuff behind?"

The Colonel ran a hand over his bearded chin as he considered the question. Finally, he shrugged. "He left his stuff. What's it matter to you?"

"Just trying to figure out if Sims is coming back. Leaving his stuff suggests he plans on returning. If he'd taken it with him then I'd say he'd left for good."

The Colonel snorted. "Doesn't take a detective to figure that out."

"True," Frank said. "Oh, and my brother and I would like a look at his stuff,"

Joe slowly turned his head and studied Frank. A smile curved the corners of Joe mouth. He loved it when Frank got this way, all bold and proactive. The Colonel was standing his ground, but Frank sure as hell was standing his, too.

"Why?" Confusion showed in the Colonel's furrowed brow. "You two a couple of perverts?"

"Yeah, we're weird like that," Frank said with a straight face. He hitched a thumb at the group of hobos still standing nervously nearby. "Maybe one of these guys can take us to Sims' stuff. Whoever goes can watch us go through the stuff and make sure we don't steal anything."

The Colonel made a face. "Not worried about you two stealing anything." He sounded like a man whose patience was wearing thin. "Just can't see any reason why you boys would wanna go through a man's dirty underwear."

If the statement was meant to dissuade Frank and Joe, Frank made it clear it had not. "Call it morbid curiosity. We're detectives, missing people interest us."

The Colonel's eyes narrowed. "Sims has only been gone a day. I wouldn't exactly call that missing. He could be holed up in town with a prostitute." A tilted smile lifted the corner of his mouth.

Frank returned the smile. "Could be. Is Sims known for doing that? For going into town and spending time with the ladies?"

The Colonel was evasive. "He's a man. All men need a lady now and then."

Joe sensed the Colonel had grown tired of the conversation. Frank needed to move things along. Fortunately, he did.

"Okay," Frank said. "Let's assume Sims is in town having a good time. I'd still like a quick look at his stuff. There might be something there that tells us where he went."

The Colonel angled his head and a dangerous glint came into his eyes. "Why's it so important for you to know where Sims is?"

Frank thought for a second and then gave a truthful answer, "Last time my brother and I were here, Sims talked to us, he asked us to do a favor for him. We'd like to let him know that we followed through on that favor."

"A favor, huh?" The Colonel's expression said he wanted to know what the favor was, but he wasn't going to belittle himself by asking – not directly. "Didn't know he'd talked to you boys."

Frank figured that was not true and simply said, "Well, he did."

The Colonel turned to the man who had stood silently by his side throughout the entire conversation. "Blaze, take these two to Sims' place. Watch 'em while they go through his things. When they're done, point them toward the highway and make sure they leave. I don't wanna see their faces round here again. There'll be hell to pay if I do." He turned to the brothers and added, "You can take that as a warning."

Bulka leaned forward and growled at the Colonel. Joe grabbed hold of her harness. "It's okay, girl. Calm down."

The Colonel chuckled. "Smart dog you got there. What'd she do in the military?"

"Sniff out IEDs," Joe said. He kept hold of Bulka's harness. She was still growling, still proclaiming her dislike of the Colonel's tone or body language.

"Dangerous job," the Colonel said and took a couple of steps toward the trees. He stopped, brought a hand to his chin, and turned back to Frank and Joe. "Oh, it wouldn't be right if I didn't warn you boys about the snakes."

Joe's grip on Bulka's harness tightened. "Snakes?"

"Yeah, lots of them around here. Some are poisonous." The Colonel grinned and turned away. Joe watched the tall, dark man melt into the trees.

"Follow me," Blaze said with a wave of his hand.

Joe, with Bulka by his side, fell in step behind Blaze. Frank brought up the rear a hand on his Beretta. Moonlight filtered through the tree branches providing spotty illumination.

Joe's eyes darted over the ground, hunting for snakes. He asked Blaze, who was setting a good pace, "What'd the Colonel mean by, watch out for snakes?"

"Don't know," Blaze said over his shoulder. "Haven't seen a snake since I got here. He's probably just trying to scare ya."

Maybe, Joe thought and said, "How long you been here?"

Blaze led the group along a hard packed path. "A month. Maybe less."

"Then you knew Tommy Sims," Frank said from behind Joe and Bulka.

Joe kept his eyes peeled for snakes. Why had the Colonel warned them about snakes? Snakes were reptiles. Cold blooded. They couldn't move at night, could they? Too cold, right? He didn't really have to worry about snakes, did he?

"I know him," Blaze confirmed. "Sims is a quiet guy. Doesn't say much. Nice though. He likes to check in on others. Ask questions, make sure everybody's okay. If anyone's hungry, he'll give them food from his stash. Not many people will do that. But Sims is good about that and people respect him."

"Is that true for the Colonel? Does he check on people and see how they're doing? Do people respect him?" Frank asked.

Blaze didn't answer right away. He gave his answer some careful consideration. "Um, the Colonel's different. More professional I guess. He runs a tight ship. Still thinks he's in the Army, still over in Iraq leading green recruits into combat."

As they walked along the well-worn path, Joe took note of the makeshift shelters tucked beneath trees and shrubs. Men had made homes anywhere they could. Bulka tried to poke her nose in a few of them as they passed by and Joe signaled her back every time.

A few small fires glowed in a few of the shipping containers. Those would be coveted shelters. Made of steel and metal, shipping containers would protect inhabitants from wind, rain, and snow. Joe wondered why more of them were not being used as shelters.

"I'm curious," Joe said, "why aren't people living in every one of these shipping containers? I've seen quite a few that are vacant."

Blaze glanced over his shoulder at Joe. "You'd have to take that up with the Colonel. He determines which containers can be used as homes."

Frank frowned. "Why's he get to decide? Can't a person just move in to any one he wants?"

Blaze stopped walking and laid a hand on a tree trunk. "Like they say in the military, that question is above my paygrade. All I know is, the Colonel makes the rules and everybody follows them. If you don't follow the rules, you're asked to leave."

Frank and Joe traded looks and Joe shrugged.

Blaze pointed beneath the tree where they had stopped. "That's Sims' place. He keeps it squared away just like he's still in the Army."

Joe got down on one knee and peered into the makeshift home. The place resembled many of the 'homes' the group had passed on the path. A military shelter-half was the most popular item used as cover and that's what Sims had used. He'd tied it to low hanging branches and secured the back portion to the ground with handmade stakes. The sides of his home were leafy tree limbs tied together with twine.

Frank crouched beside his brother. "Not a bad structure. It'll keep the wind and rain out for the most part."

"Yeah, it'll do until winter comes," Joe said. "Then I'd want to be in one of those shipping containers."

Frank nodded. "Me, too." He pulled a penlight out of his jacket and swept the beam over the floor of the shelter. Sims was indeed a neat tenant. His sleeping bag was spread out all nice and tidy. A pile of folded clothes served as a pillow. A half burned candle served as a light.

Joe moved into the shelter and rifled through the pile of clothes. Nothing was wedged in between them. "Let me have the light," he said to Frank.

Frank handed over the penlight and Joe swept the beam over the entire interior of the small abode.

Frank put a hand on Bulka's harness to restrain her. "Stay here, girl. Don't want any dirty pawprints on Sims' sleeping bag."

Joe crawled out of the shelter. "Nada. Not a damn thing. You wanna take a look, bro?"

"Sure, why not."

Joe handed Frank the penlight and Frank crawled in for a quick look. He ran a hand over the dirt floor and under the sleeping bag. He checked the pile of clothes, too, and then crawled out of the shelter.

"You were right," Frank said. "Nothing there. Nothing that tells us where Sims might have gone."

"Waste of time," Blaze said. His tone indicated the brothers should have known that all along. Blaze had stood by patiently, eyes fixed on Bulka, while the brothers had examined the shelter.

Frank shoved the penlight in his jacket pocket and nodded at Blaze. "Well, thanks for letting us check it out. We'll be on our way now."

Blaze jerked his head to the side. "This way. I'll show you the way out. Stay close. The path's a little rough."

Blaze led the brothers and Bulka through a maze of trees and juniper shrubs. Joe wasn't sure it was a path. Wasn't there certain things that defined a path? Like it had to be wide enough to navigate comfortably? This was a tangle of weeds and roots that maybe – just maybe – someone had walked over at a distance time in the past. Several of those roots had even tried to trip Joe. By the time the group came to a clearing Joe was silently cursing.

Blaze stretched out an arm and pointed. "Head straight that way and you should run into the highway."

"Thanks," Joe said without a drop of sincerity. "C'mon, Bulka, lead us to the vehicle."

Ten minutes later, after several wrong turns, the brothers huffed up to the vehicle. Joe opened the passenger's side door and reached inside. The dome light shattered his night vision and caused him to squint.

Frank scanned the exterior of his vehicle for dents. Force of habit. He found none and checked the ground for recent footprints. Again nothing. His SUV had sat undisturbed while they were gone.

Joe grabbed a bottle of water and Bulka's water dish. He placed the dish on the ground, filled it with water, and patted Bulka's head. "Took a while, Bulka, but once you picked up our scent, you got us to Frank's vehicle without any trouble." Bulka greedily lapped water while Joe grabbed a water bottle for himself and Frank.

The brothers put their backs against the SUV, relaxed, and chugged water. The moon was high in the sky, floating above the tree tops. It cast a silvery glow upon the forest, painting everything in metallic hues. Bulka, her thirst sated, started sniffing around the immediate area.

Frank watched Bulka as he finished his water. "You think she could lead us to Sims if she had something with his scent on it?"

Joe eyed his brother with interest. "Definitely, but we'd need a personal item of his."

"Something like this?" Frank pulled a sock out of his jacket pocket and held it up.

Joe smiled. "Yeah, exactly like that. Hey, when did you.."

"I palmed it when I looked through his clothes. Blaze wasn't paying any attention to us. He never took his eyes off Bulka. I think he thought she might bite him if he turned his back on her."

Joe took the sock from Frank. "Let's see if this works. Bulka, come here, girl." Joe held the sock under Bulka's nose and said, "Get a good smell, girl. There you go. Now, seek! Find Sims for us."

Bulka sniffed the ground, found the scent she now knew very well, and tracked it.

"She's got it," Joe said, surprised at how fast Bulka had picked up the scent. There could be only one reason for that. Sims had come this way recently.

Bulka disappeared into the timber and Joe and Frank followed. Bulka paused to sniff blades of dying grass at the edge of the narrow trail. Yes, the scent was the same, stronger here. Bulka trotted further into the forest, letting her nose guide her.

Where the trail led, no one knew.

* * *

 _A/N: Just a quick note to thank those who left a review on the previous chapter. Things start to pick up from here on out. Oh, and thank you all, I loved my long vacation. I visited the Grand Tetons, Yellowstone, Mount Rushmore, places in Montana, Idaho, Washington (state), and New Mexico. Whew! But it was all absolutely stunning! America is truly a beautiful country with lots of wide open spaces._


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter 30

Bulka led the brothers back to the hobo camp, back to the campfire where the brothers had encountered Colonel Charles and the other hobos. Not the place Joe or Frank wanted to be, not after the Colonel's warning.

 _I don't wanna see your faces round here again. There'll be hell to pay if I do._

Joe wasn't worried about a confrontation with the Colonel. Joe felt confident he and Frank could handle anything the Colonel threw at them. It was more a matter of not letting the Colonel know they were still nosing around, still investigating Sims' disappearance.

Plus, it did the brothers no good to go back to the campfire. They knew Sims had been there at some point over the past few days and _wasn't_ there now.

Joe signaled Bulka to turn around and lead them away from the campfire. She sniffed the ground, found the scent again, and trotted down another narrow trail. The entire graveyard was criss-crossed with narrow trails. Hobos walking from one place to another. Sims had probably walked every one of the trails at some time.

Bulka switched to a new trail. Joe figured Sims' scent must be stronger on this new trail. The brothers followed Bulka for several minutes, ever wary of watchers in the bushes. Joe and Frank's eyes constantly swept the bushes. Joe and Frank preferred that _no_ one know they were still in the vicinity.

Bulka led the brothers back to the area where Frank's SUV was parked. She sniffed the ground around his vehicle, trotted ten feet away from the vehicle, and sat down. Her tongue rolled out of her mouth and she panted.

Frank scratched his head. "That's the second time she's led us back here and the second time she's sat in that spot."

Joe walked over and stood beside his brother. "You know what that means?"

"I have a pretty good idea, but why don't you tell me." One dark eyebrow rose as Frank looked at his brother.

Joe ran a hand over the back of his neck. "That's where Sims' scent ends. That means Sims was here in this clearing."

"If his scent ends there then he must have gotten in a vehicle and was driven away. Maybe he was hitchhiking and caught a ride into town."

Joe shook he head. "He didn't hitchhike into town. Not from here. We're hidden behind bushes and trees. No car would ever see him back here."

"True, but what if he just stashed his stuff here? Hid it behind some of these bushes and trees while he was out there," Frank pointed in the direction of the highway, "thumbing for a ride."

"Why would he hide his stuff?" Joe asked.

"Because he didn't want anyone to know he was leaving, especially the Colonel."

Joe frowned and shook his head again. "Only one problem with that theory."

"What's that?"

"Sims didn't take his stuff. We checked. It's all back there under his shelter-half."

"That might not be all of his stuff," Frank said weakly.

Joe sensed that Frank wasn't overly convinced of the hitchhiking idea, but they had to prove or disprove it.

"How about this," Joe said, "we take Bulka up to the highway and see if she picks up Sims' scent. If she does, then you're right, Sims was here with some of his things and he hitchhiked into town. If she doesn't find it, then he got in a car here, right at that spot." Joe pointed at Bulka still sitting on the aforementioned spot.

"Excellent idea," Frank said. "Let's do it."

The brothers led Bulka up to the highway. The moon, big and round, lit the black pavement. Thick pine trees lined both sides of the two lane highway. Very few cars were out at this time of night. Not a one passed by.

Joe held Sims' sock under Bulka's nose and said, "Seek."

Bulka sniffed the surrounding gravel, weeds, bushes, and the edge of the road.

Joe crossed his arms and watched. "She's not finding it," he said.

Frank put his hands on his hips. "Nope, she's not. Looks like he didn't hitchhike."

Joe called Bulka to his side and the trio walked back to Frank's vehicle. Time for another water break. Joe put his hand on the passenger's door handle. Bulka's low growl made him drop to his knees and reach for his gun. Frank, who was at the rear of the vehicle, did the same.

Joe knew Bulka had heard a person. She was trained _not_ to alert to animals. "Where is he?" Joe whispered to Bulka.

Bulka low crawled forward, to Frank, and lay on the ground minimizing her outline. Frank was scanning the bushes, hunting for any small flash of movement. Joe stayed where he was, pressed against the door of the SUV, scanning the bushes, too.

Bulka jerked her head to the left and Joe knew she had a bead on someone. "Get him," Joe hissed.

Bulka sprang off the ground and charged, full-throttle, into the bushes. Joe ran after her and stopped a few feet in front of the bushes. He heard the sounds of a scuffle and a cry of pain. Then, "No! No! Stop that!"

Joe aimed his gun in the direction of the male voice. "Come out with your hands up."

Out came Bulka. Well, the hindquarters of her. She backed out of the bushes growling and dragging a hobo by the wrist. The man's free arm was raised in surrender. A stuffed pillowcase, the traditional hobo suitcase, swayed in his free hand.

"Please, call her off," he pleaded. "I haven't done anything wrong."

Joe gave Bulka a hand signal and she released the man. Satisfied with her work, she trotted over to Joe and stood by his side. "Good job, girl," he praised her.

Frank had taken a circuitous route and checked behind the bushes for other hobos. He now emerged, walked over to his brother and Bulka, and said, "I didn't see anyone else hidden back there."

"I'm alone," the hobo declared. "I'm hoping to catch a ride into town."

Joe studied the young man standing in front of him. It was hard to do given the low light conditions. Joe figured the hobo to be in his late twenties or early thirties. He had a _what the hell_ expression on his face, not a _oh hell, I've been caught_ expression. Joe was familiar with both expressions. He'd seen plenty of them during his seven years as an Army MP and his many years as a detective. Joe's experience was telling him this young hobo was no threat to him and Frank.

The young man had a head of dark, shaggy hair and a beard to match. He was lean and wiry almost to the point of being gaunt. Nothing a couple of good meals wouldn't fix and an hour at a decent barber wouldn't hurt either.

Joe lowered his gun and slipped it into the shoulder holster beneath his jacket. "You can put your hands down. Sorry I sent the dog after you. Did she hurt you?"

The hobo dropped his pillowcase/suitcase on the ground and rubbed his sore wrist. "Nah, just a couple of teeth marks. I'll be fine."

"I'm Joe Hardy, this is my brother Frank, and this is Bulka. You said you're looking for a ride into town?"

"Yeah." The young hobo nodded rapidly. "I just wanna get the hell outta here. Things are starting to get weird around here."

Frank holstered his gun and said, "What do you mean by getting weird?"

The young hobo stared at Frank. "Weird as in people are saying we can't trust anyone anymore. Everyone's talking about how it's not safe here anymore. I've heard some people say there's been murders, that people are being killed in their tents while they sleep. Others say that's a bunch of bull." The man threw his arms up in the air and let them fall helplessly. "Hell, I don't know what to believe!"

Joe stroked his chin as he eyed the raggedy hobo. He wore tattered jeans and a checkered, flannel shirt beneath a frayed Army jacket. "You got a name?"

"Yeah, Whiskey One."

Joe cocked an eyebrow. "Whiskey One?"

"Yeah, but most people just call me Whiskey. Whiskey One was my call sign when I was in the Army. I was a radio operator. Did time in Afghanistan."

"Me, too," Joe said. "So, tonight you decided to pack up your stuff and move on?"

"Pretty much." Whiskey crossed his arms and exchanged glances with the brothers. "I got a few bucks. I can stay in town at least one night and then hit the road in the morning. Get as far away from here as possible."

Frank nodded at the hobo. "Sounds like a good plan. I'll be honest with you, we're here investigating some of those claims. We've heard that men are disappearing from the camp and no one knows where they've gone. Last time we were here a hobo talked to us. Maybe you know him. His name's Tommy Sims."

Whiskey's eyes got wide and round. "Sims? Hell yeah, I know him. He's the reason I'm leaving."

Joe's eyes narrowed and he frowned. "How's that?"

"Sims is one of the ones saying people are disappearing and .. and being killed. And now he's up and disappeared. It ain't right, man. Something's wrong. I can feel it."

Frank said, "We spoke to Colonel Charles tonight. He said Sims has only been gone a day. He didn't seem overly concerned about Sims. Seems to think Sims will show up in a day or two. What do you think?"

Whiskey lowered his head and shook it vigorously. He didn't look the least bit happy. "No, man, no. Sims ain't like that. He doesn't up and leave without telling his buddies." Whiskey's head came up and his eyes met Frank's. "I'm one of his buddies. He told me .. well, more like warned me, that if he disappeared I had to get outta here fast. And that's exactly what I'm doing."

"When was the last time you saw Sims?" Joe said.

"Sunday afternoon," Whiskey said. "We shared a meal late that afternoon. I got to feeling sick a few hours later and curled up in my sleeping bag. I didn't wake up until the next morning. First thing I did was go looking for Sims. I wanted to see how he was doing, see if the food had upset his stomach, too. I couldn't find him and no one knew where he was. Last time anybody remembered seeing him was at the campfire with the Colonel when two detectives showed up. I'm assuming you guys were the two detectives."

Joe and Frank nodded and Joe said, "That would be us and Sims tracked us down that night. Followed us to our vehicle and secretly met with us. He asked us to look into the disappearances. He seemed very troubled by them."

"He was," Whiskey agreed. "He talked to a few of us about them. Told us not to accept any jobs from the Colonel. Said that people who took jobs from the Colonel wound up disappearing."

Frank moved closer to Whiskey. "What's your honest feelings? Do you trust the Colonel?"

Whiskey shook his head, slow and methodically. "Used to. Not anymore. Things are happening just like Sims said. A couple of men went with the Colonel yesterday for a job and they never came back. The Colonel came back, but they didn't. The Colonel claims they decided to stay in town for a few days and spend the money they'd earned." Whiskey looked at Frank and then Joe. "It sounds reasonable, you know, spend some cash, have some fun. But I don't believe it. When the Colonel was telling us the story I got a tingling down my spine. It reminded me of Afghanistan when we'd be on patrol. After you do a few of those you get a sixth sense about danger. You can kinda feel the enemy out there waiting for you."

Joe could relate. He had experienced the same thing during his time in Afghanistan. That sixth-sense. Grunts lived and died by it. Guys who had been in country for a while called it their spidey-sense. Joe knew of a handful of times when someone's spidey-sense had saved lives. Right now, his was telling him they had spent too much time out in the open talking. Bad tactical move.

"Listen," Joe said, "we need to move this conversation to a different location. My spidey-sense is telling me there might be eyes and ears in these shadows." He motioned with his chin at the surrounding forest. "We can give you a lift into town if you'd like."

Whiskey One gladly accepted the ride. He was happy when Frank drove onto the highway and sped away. Each mile Frank drove put a mile between Whiskey and the shipping container graveyard .. and, more importantly, the Colonel.

Whiskey sat in the back seat. His stuffed pillowcase and a rolled up sleeping bag lay on the floor by his feet. He'd had to retrieve the sleeping bag from behind the bushes. Whiskey didn't have many possessions, but what he did have, he cherished.

Joe spoke more to his brother than Whiskey, "Something the Colonel said got me to thinking. I believe I know where Sims is."

Whiskey leaned forward as far as his seatbelt would allow. "Where?"

Joe paused a beat. "It's a place about ten miles from here. My brother and I were there Sunday night."

Frank peered at Joe from the corner of his eye. "You mean the snake house?"

"Yep." Joe's voice was tight like his throat had closed up. "That's the place."

Whiskey said, "Snake house? What's the snake house?"

Frank glanced in his rearview mirror at Whiskey. "A building filled with snakes."

"Yeah," Joe said, "it's not as much fun as it sounds. And, for the record, I _hate_ snakes."

"Not exactly fond of them myself," Whiskey admitted. "What makes you think Sims is there?"

Joe's theory of where Sims was and why he was there weren't exactly pleasant. Actually, they were very unpleasant. Did he want to lay that on Whiskey? Whiskey and Sims were buddies. Damn. Joe's hand fisted and his nails dug into his palm. Damn, if Whiskey and Sims were that close then Whiskey deserved to hear the truth.

"Listen," Joe said, "the Colonel warned Frank and me about snakes tonight. It was kind of an out of the blue comment. I thought he was just trying to scare us off, but the more I've thought about it the more I think he was actually giving us a clue."

"A clue as to where Sims is," Frank said. "I've been wondering about that snake comment, too. I hate to say it, but we have to go back to the snake house. We have to check it out again."

"Yeah," Joe rasped, his throat tight again. "You're right. I've been debating with myself if we should go back tonight or tomorrow night."

"No time like the present," Frank said. "We're already headed in the right direction."

Joe hitched a thumb toward the back seat. "We need to drop Whiskey in town first. That means you need to turn left in a mile or so."

"Oh no, you don't." Whiskey clutched the back of Joe's seat with a strong hand. "You're not leaving me outta this. I'm going with you guys. Sims is my friend. If he's at this snake house and he's hurt, then I wanna be there for him. He's always been there for me when I was down and out. Dammit, I'm not leaving him alone out there. I'm going with y'all and I'm gonna be there for him."

Frank and Joe exchanged looks. It was Joe who spoke. "Whiskey? Um, if Sims is there, I don't think he's going to be hurt." Joe had to break it to him gently. "If he's there, chances are he's beyond our help."

Whiskey sucked in a breath and let it out slow. His eyes grew moist as he thought it over. Hard realities and hard truths. He ran a rough hand over his eyes and said he understood what Joe was saying. Sims might be dead. But, dammit, dead or alive, it didn't change his mind. He was going to be there for his buddy. Sims had earned that kind of respect.

Joe and Frank realized the dynamics had changed. The team now consisted of three men and a dog. Their mission was simple: go behind enemy lines, find a fallen comrade, and bring him home.

# # # #

Frank rolled to a stop near the chain linked fence. He turned off the vehicle and killed the headlights. The fence was six and a half feet high and ran the perimeter of five acres of land owned by Kyle Nicholson. On that five acres sat a white building housing dangerous snakes. Joe didn't relish being here again. Once had been enough.

The men had driven along the road, eyes glued to the fence, looking for zones of weakness, a place where they could slip under. The dark night had made the task nearly impossible. Luckily, Joe had had the foresight to put his night vision goggles in the glove box. Those had helped, but as anybody who has used night vision goggles knows, the image is not sharp and clear. Everything's green and a touch on the blurry side. However, after two drive bys, Joe felt certain he'd spotted an opening. A small one. The men got out of the SUV and walked along the fence. Frank used his cell phone to illuminate the area.

Joe let Bulka out of her carrier and gave her free reign to roam. She bounded along the fence, happy to be out of the carrier. She hadn't picked up on the men's sober moods yet. Since she wasn't being ordered to seek human scents, she did what dogs naturally did, she sniffed for other animals. What creatures had come this way recently? Hmm, something large had wandered through. A wolf or coyote? Bulka was only vaguely familiar with those animals.

She kept sniffing. The scent was strong. Maybe more than one wolf or coyote. She tracked the mingled scents and came to a sort of hole beneath the chain link. Animals had dug under the fence and crawled through to the other side. Bulka lifted her head and whined. She wanted to do the same, but she needed permission.

Joe had followed Bulka along the fence. He called out, "Hey, guys. Bulka's found the opening."

The three men gathered at the opening and discussed what to do. Bulka might be able to get under the fence and to the other side. But what about the men?

"We can climb over," Whiskey said.

"Our shoes are too big," Joe countered. He held a booted foot up to the diamond shaped holes in the chain link. The toe box of his boot was twice the size of the hole. "We can't fit our feet in the holes."

Whiskey offered a new suggestion. "How 'bout we climb it barefoot."

Joe grimaced. "That'll hurt and I'm not even sure my feet will fit in those holes."

"You got big feet, huh?" Whiskey chuckled.

Joe grinned. "You know what they say, big feet, big.."

Frank cleared his throat and pointed at the top of the fence. "There's barbed wire up there. Getting certain body parts caught in that would hurt like hell."

Whiskey and Joe looked up at the top of the fence. The smiles fell from their faces and they shook their heads. Going over the fence was out of the question. Well, unless they got really desperate and they weren't quite there yet.

"Back to the opening under the fence," Joe said.

Whiskey got down on his hands and knees and examined the hole. Bulka came over to investigate and he gently pushed her away. "I'm thin. I might be able to squeeze under." He laid on the ground and stuck his head through the opening. That worked okay, but his shoulders didn't. "Damn, I'm stuck. Give me hand, guys."

Joe and Frank pulled him free. Joe's frustration was mounting. They had an opening, but couldn't squeeze through it.

Whiskey brushed dirt and grass off his hair and beard. "Okay, I got it. We have to enlarge the hole."

"You're right." There was a note of optimism in Joe's tone. "Frank, you have any tools in your vehicle that we can use for digging?"

"Like shovels?" Frank said sarcastically. "Yeah, I carry those around all the time."

Before Joe could reply, Whiskey cut in, "Guys." He smiled up at them. "Don't need any shovels. We can dig with our hands." He started digging, flinging handfuls of dirt in Frank and Joe's direction.

The brothers scrambled out of the splash zone, looked at each other, and shrugged. Whiskey seemed to be making good progress.

"One of us will take over when you get tired," Joe said.

Bulka watched the man dig. Finally, someone was doing something about that hole. That mysterious, enticing hole. She shoved her head and paws in among the man's hands and started digging with him. The dirt flew higher and faster.

Whiskey backed away, pushed to his feet, and wiped his hands on his jeans. "She's doing a better job than I was."

Joe cheered her on, "Atta, girl. Keep digging."

Frank and Whiskey cheered her on, too. Not that she needed it. Bulka was more than happy to dig and it wasn't long before she had the hole big enough. Well, big enough for her _and_ only her. She flattened her ears, pushed her head beneath the chain link, wiggled the rest of her body under, and emerged on the other side of the fence. She shook herself clean and barked at the men as if to say, _Look at me. I did it!_

Joe and Whiskey began digging. Each thinking, it wouldn't take much effort to enlarge the hole. Bulka had done the hard work. She'd dug through the hard surface layer. By comparison, the men had it easy. They were digging soft, damp dirt.

Frank's contribution to the operation was shining his cell phone on the ground and informing everyone they were breaking the law. No Trespassing signs were posted on the fence every few feet. They couldn't feign ignorance.

"Trespassing in Illinois is considered a Class B Misdemeanor," he told Joe and Whiskey. "It carries a maximum penalty of up to six months in jail and a maximum fine of $1,500."

Joe and Whiskey looked at each other, rolled their eyes, and shook their heads.

"I know the law," Joe said as he dug, "and judges rarely, and I do mean _rarely_ , give jail time for trespassing. If we're caught we might have to pay a fine. I'm willing to pay that if we find Sims."

Whiskey nodded. "Me, too, buddy."

# # # #

Finally, all three men were on the other side of the fence. Bulka greeted them with tail wags and licks. Each man patted the dog as they brushed dirt and dried grass off their clothes.

The glow of the light that stood outside the snake house beckoned in the distance. Joe wasn't looking forward to visiting that white building again.

Frank laid a dirty hand on Joe's shoulder. "Let's head for the snake house. It's the most likely place to find Sims or his scent."

Joe made a sour face. "I was afraid you were going to say that." He reluctantly fell in step next to his brother.

The men walked three abreast, Bulka bounding in front of them. An occasional grasshopper took flight and she chased after it. However, she soon lost it in the weeds and grass and scampered back to the men.

Joe surveyed his surroundings as they walked. Outside of the fence was the road and forest. Inside the fence was knee high grass and weeds, and the black silhouettes of a few stunted deciduous trees. This property wasn't for enjoyment, not unless one considered the snake house a joy. Maybe Nicholson got enjoyment out of that. Out of the snakes. He certainly didn't use the rest of the land. Not as far as Joe could see. Of course, Joe's view was limited in the dim lighting. There might be something else on this land that he couldn't see.

Bulka's snarl brought Joe back to the present. "What is it, girl?"

Frank nudged his brother. "The snake house. I think she can smell the snakes."

Joe hadn't realized they were that close to the building. He looked down at Bulka. She was pacing. The hackles on her neck and back were raised. He dropped to one knee. "It's okay, girl. We're not going to make you go in there."

"You need to distract her," Frank said.

Whiskey leaned in and whispered to Frank, "You think Sims is in that building?"

It pained Frank to think the man might be. "I sincerely hope not."

Whiskey nodded meekly. "Yeah, me, too." He looked over at Joe crouched beside Bulka. "What now?"

Joe pulled Sims' sock out of his jacket pocket and held it up to Bulka. "Time to work, girl. There, you know the scent. Seek."

# # # #

Bulka had to find the scent, the one she had tracked many times tonight. She began her hunt, nose to the ground. The scent was here somewhere, hidden among all the other smells. Trees, grass, small animal droppings, and the building. She gave the building a wide berth. Instinctively, she knew the strange, foreign smells emanating from it signaled danger.

Over the ground she went, back and forth in a pattern. Just as she had been trained to do. All very precise and neat. Oh, and there it was, the scent from the sock. It was mixed with another scent, one she was familiar with. One she did not like.

Off she went, through the grass. The blades were flat against the ground. Someone had walked here not long ago. She heard Joe and Frank and the other man walking behind her. They were all on the hunt together, like a dog pack.

The scent changed as she drew closer. It changed from the living to the dead. Dead. That brought back memories of the place with explosions. Bad memories. Very bad memories. She veered to the right and sat. Let the men do the rest. She had done her job.

# # # #

Joe smelled it before he saw it. Human hair and clothe. The body lay exposed, barely visible in the dim light. Joe put a hand over his nose and mouth and bent down for a closer look. Not that he really wanted a closer look, but they had to be sure. Yep, it was Tommy Sims. He was wearing the same clothes Joe and Frank had seen him in on Sunday.

"Goddammit. Aww, no! For God's sakes, no!"

It was Whiskey. The anguish in his voice gripped Joe's heart and nearly tore it in two. He couldn't breathe. Didn't really want to. Oh, he'd known this was a possibility – Sims' death – but until it was a reality Joe had held out hope. A tiny sliver of hope. But now? Damn. Double and triple damn.

Whiskey wailed and fell to his knees on the other side of Sims. "I failed you, man. I failed you."

Frank crouched beside Whiskey, placed a hand on the man's shoulder, and squeezed. "We're going to find who did this and make them pay. I give you my word on that."

Whiskey nodded his thanks. A tear ran down his cheek and he wiped it away. "Sims was a good man. He didn't deserve this." His voice was thick and rough. "He did _not_ deserve this!"

"No, he didn't," Frank said quietly.

# # # #

Bulka sensed the men's pain. She knew death as well as they did. She howled mournfully to show her sympathy. Joe came over, pulled her to his chest, and hugged her. He spoke softly in her ear, telling her she was a good girl. He put a hand to his face and when he stroked her fur the hand was wet with tears.

Bulka was glad when they left the dead man and headed for the fence. She was happy to leave the dead man's scent behind and the scent of the other man; the tall, dark man from the hobo camp. Bulka did not like him. His voice had not been kind when he'd spoken to Joe and Frank. Bulka thought he was a bad man. A very bad man.

* * *

 _A/N: Thank you all for continuing to read this story and for leaving a few reviews. Reviews are always greatly appreciated by writers. Oh, and thanks for letting me know you were happy I enjoyed my vacation. Vacations are good for the soul. :D_


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

Just as Joe had predicted, they did not spend any time in jail. They were detained and questioned into the wee hours of the night, but Joe had expected that. When you call the police in the middle of the night and report a dead body, well, there tend to be questions. The biggest one being, _How did you come to find the body?_

Detective Ziegler had asked all three of them that. Joe, Frank, and Whiskey. Ziegler put them in separate rooms and questioned them individually to see if their stories matched. Joe knew the stories would. He, Frank, and Whiskey had rehearsed them before the police arrived. The one detail Joe wanted left out of their stories was the snake house, the fact that he and Frank had been in it once before. No need adding further trespassing charges. Let Ziegler and the police discover what the white building held all on their own. That should be fun.

So, the basic story they told the police was true. Joe and Frank had gone to the shipping container graveyard to pay the Colonel a visit and to check on Tommy Sims. Sims' disappearance had set off alarm bells. While at the graveyard Joe and Frank had asked for permission to check Sims' stuff and, yes, they had stolen a sock.

"How much jail time for a stolen sock?" Joe had joked.

Ziegler had sat stony faced across the table from Joe. He'd told Joe how he'd been having a nice evening at home with his wife. The kids were in bed. The house was quiet. A rare event when one has two small children. The wife was in a romantic mood. Also a rare event when one has two small children. Did Joe want Ziegler to continue?

"Um, no. Sorry I interrupted your quiet evening," Joe had mumbled and continued his story.

Joe said the Colonel's snake comment had gotten him to thinking. Maybe the Colonel was giving him a hint that Nicholson was involved in Sims' disappearance and, by extension, the disappearance of the other hobos.

Ziegler had crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. "I don't follow. Why would the mention of snakes indicate Nicholson's involved?"

"Because Deke Boxberger once warned me about snakes. The day he took a shot at me as a matter-of-fact. When I was leaving the docks he said something along the lines of, watch out, there are snakes in the river. I didn't think much about the comment then, but when the Colonel specifically mentioned snakes, well, .."

"You figured it was the same warning as Boxberger's."

Joe nodded. "I already knew Nicholson had a couple of pieces of land. I'd done a Google Map search on him. One of those properties had a white building on it. I thought, what if Nicholson hides the dead bodies in that building? I figured it was worth a look."

"But you didn't go in the white building?"

"No, the dog didn't want anything to do with it. And Sims' scent led her away from it. She took us right to his body."

# # # #

Wednesday morning. The ringing of his cell phone brought Joe out of a deep sleep. Sleep had been a long time in coming. A hard fought battle, finally won, only to be defeated by an early morning call.

Joe pushed the accept button on his phone and Ziegler's voice greeted him. "Rise and shine, Hardy. Got some news for you."

Joe lay on his bed, Bulka nestled beside him on her blanket. She had lifted her head when the phone rang, saw Joe answer it and start talking. Nothing exciting, so she put her head back on her front paws, closed her eyes, and drifted off again.

Joe yawned. "What's up?" Had to be important if Ziegler was calling him this early in the morning. Joe squinted at the bedside clock – eight-fifteen. Okay, not so early.

"Found two more bodies. Buried in shallow graves," Ziegler said.

"Damn. Where?"

"Not far from Sims. Yep, it's not looking good for Nicholson. I've got a search warrant for the white building. Don't know what the hell we'll find in there. Could be more bodies, could be explosives. Could be a hundred different things. We're calling in a bomb squat just in case it's rigged to explode."

"Sounds like a smart precaution." Joe figured a bomb squat should be able to handle a building full of snakes. "Has Nicholson been arrested yet?"

"Not yet. I'm on my way to see him now. Just wanted to bring you up to date on what's been happening while you were sleeping." It was a subtle dig.

"Thanks, I appreciate the call. Hey, does this mean Banyan will be released?"

Ziegler laughed. "Good try, Hardy, but no. You know how murder cases work. We have to prove Nicholson knew the bodies were on his property. We have to show his involvement in these killings and the killings of Dan Sagget and Dolores Gage. Hopefully, all the puzzle pieces will come together soon. We're just getting started."

Yeah, Joe knew how murder cases worked. He also knew how the criminal justice system worked. Slowly. But there was a need for slow. Slow meant thorough and accurate.

# # # #

Muriel Boggs buzzed around the Farmers' Insurance office she and her husband owned. It was eight-thirty in the morning. The work day was just starting. A lovely Wednesday. The weather was cool and crisp. A nice fall day. Muriel got the coffeemaker going and checked the cupboard for clean mugs. Yes, they had plenty all washed and ready for clients. She peered into the small refrigerator and sighed. "Oh dear. This isn't good."

Vanessa, sitting at her desk, looked up from her paperwork. "What's wrong Aunt Muriel?"

"We're almost out of cream." Muriel lifted the container out of the fridge and shook it. "There's only a few drops left and I've got clients coming in half an hour. A nice young couple buying their first home and after that I'm meeting with parents whose teenage son wrecked the new car they bought him."

Vanessa shut the folder on her paperwork and stood. "No worries, Aunt Muriel. I'll run down the block to the corner market and get a carton of cream. It'll only take me a few minutes to walk there and back." Vanessa grabbed her purse from the top desk drawer.

"I hate to pull you away from your work." Muriel looked truly distressed.

"Please." Vanessa waved a dismissive hand and shrugged on a light jacket. "I could use the exercise and fresh air. Look, I wore my sensible shoes today." Indeed she had, a pair of Skechers. Sensible shoes to be sure. Style and comfort wrapped into one.

Muriel wrung her hands. "Well, okay, if you're sure."

"I'm positive." Vanessa slipped her clutch purse into her jacket pocket. "I'll be back before you know."

She scooped her cell phone off the desk, left through the front door, and turned left. The Endeavor Detective Agency was adjacent to the Farmers' Insurance office. Vanessa opened the door of the detective agency and poked her head in. Nancy was sitting at her desk doing the same thing Vanessa had been doing moments ago. Paperwork.

Nancy lifted her head and greeted Vanessa with a bright smile. "Good morning, Van. What's up?"

"Going to the corner market for some cream. We're all out and Aunt Muriel has clients coming in half an hour. Need anything while I'm there?"

Nancy's smile faded ever-so slightly and the smallest of frowns clouded her forehead. "No. Thanks. But be careful. Our mystery stalker is still out there."

Vanessa's smile faded a little, too, but she was adamant. "We haven't seen him or his truck in days."

"That doesn't mean he's not out there. It just means he's smart." Nancy felt as if she was lecturing her friend and hated it. However, Joe had entrusted Vanessa to Nancy's care and Nancy was going to watch Vanessa like a hawk. Nancy pushed out of her chair. "I can go with you. It'll only take me a minute to lock up the office."

"I'm only going a few feet down the street." There was a defiance in Vanessa's tone. It said, _I need to do this by myself. I need to feel normal again because I haven't felt normal since the strange man appeared_. "I think I can go to the store, get a carton of cream, and come back all by myself."

Nancy understood how Vanessa felt and backed off a bit. "Yes, of course. I only want you to be safe."

"I know." Vanessa's expression softened and she stepped into the office.

Nancy came around her desk and the two women hugged. No matter what the conflict, their friendship remained strong.

"I'll call when I get to the store," Vanessa said, her peace offering. "And I'll call when I leave so you know when I'm coming back. You can watch me walk down the sidewalk right here from your front door. How's that sound?"

"It's sounds wonderful."

Vanessa was happy to see the smile return to Nancy's lips.

"Good. Now I have to go. Aunt Muriel is waiting for that cream."

And with that Vanessa was out the door and striding rapidly along the sidewalk. Nancy watched her friend go for a moment before closing the door and heading to her desk. She opened the top drawer and withdrew her handgun, a Glock 19. It was a small, effective handgun used the world over by military and police forces. Nancy had used one during her days as a Chicago police officer and detective. She laid the gun on the desk, sat down, and waited.

Four and a half minutes later, Vanessa called. "Just walked into the store. It's not busy so I should be quick."

"Great. Thanks for calling." Nancy breathed a sigh of relief, ended the call, and waited for the next one.

Two minutes later Vanessa called again. "On my way out the door. You should see me any minute coming down the sidewalk."

"I'll be watching for you." Nancy hurried to the front door, pushed it open, and stepped outside. She turned to the left, in the direction of the market and waiting for Vanessa to appear.

# # # #

The man smiled at her. He wasn't looking at her face, though, he was looking at her breasts, openly. What a creep, Vanessa thought and kept walking.

"Hey," the man said. He sounded casual and low-key. Just a guy hanging around outside a store.

"Hey," Vanessa replied. She didn't want to be rude. No sense in that. She glanced back at the man. He was big. Over six feet tall and muscular. He had short, dark hair and no beard. Not the man from the alley, she guessed. That man had had a beard.

Nevertheless, Vanessa did not want to encourage the man behind her. She had no desire to strike up a conversation. That would give him the wrong idea. Totally the wrong idea. So, with that in mind, she kept walking at a nice, steady pace. Aunt Muriel was waiting and Nancy was probably standing outside her door watching and waiting.

Vanessa passed a parked car. She tried to ignore the man behind her staring at her ass. Oh yes, she knew he was staring at her body. Every single inch of it. She could feel his eyes raking her hips and legs.

"You dropped something," the man said.

Not likely, she thought. All she had in her hand was the plastic bag with the carton of cream and she sure as hell hadn't felt anything fall from it. Her purse and phone were tucked in her zippered jacket pocket so she knew they hadn't fallen. However, she did hesitate a split second. Human nature to second guess one's self. Vanessa was next to a blue, four-door vehicle. A sedan of some kind. She didn't know makes or models of cars. What woman did?

"I'll get it for you," the man said. He sounded sincere. _Just being helpful ma'am_.

Vanessa looked at the bag in her hand. Maybe the paper receipt had fallen out. The man stepped up to her, jammed a stun gun into her side, and pulled the trigger. It was like being hit by a car. She screamed, her body spasmed, and she dropped the plastic bag with the cream. She heard it thump on the pavement. Her legs gave out and she collapsed into the man's burly arms. He shoved her up against the sedan, jerked her wrists together, and secured them with flexi-cuffs. His movements were deft and smooth like he'd done this a hundred times before.

He opened the passenger's door of the car and pushed her inside, slammed the door shut, and hustled around to the driver's side.

Vanessa lay sprawled in the seat, unable to move, her brain fuzzy, snap, crackle, and popping. She wanted her brain to work and her body to work. Neither did. Her skin was hot where the stun gun had shocked her. The man got into the driver's seat, put the car in gear, and drove out of the parking lot. He merged into morning traffic like he was a normal citizen going about his daily routine.

Fear prickled Vanessa's spine. She was in a bad situation. Immobile and vulnerable and in a strange car with a strange, scary man. Fear started to build and she fought it. Fought it hard. No time for fear. She had to think, had to get herself out of this mess. For that though, she needed her body to work. Her skin tingled and she tried wiggling her fingers. They moved a little! The shock of the stun gun was wearing off. _Thank God!_ More importantly, her brain was starting to function again.

The man drove the speed limit, thirty-five mph. Obviously, he didn't want to draw attention to himself. Plus, there were a fair number of cars on the street. People were still trying to get to work.

The slow progress of the car gave Vanessa time to think, and now, her fear was morphing into anger, a simmering, violent kind of anger. Who the hell was this man? Was he the man with the beard? Had to be. Which meant Nancy had been right. Danger was still out there. She should have listened to Nancy. Should have let Nancy go with her to the market.

Wait, Nancy was on her doorstep, watching for Vanessa. By now Nancy would realize something was wrong. Nancy might be looking for her at this very moment.

A bud of hope blossomed inside of Vanessa. It vanished as fast as it had appeared. How could Nancy find her? She was in a strange car being driven away from the store?

# # # #

Nancy didn't like it. Something was most decidedly wrong. It had been almost two minutes and no sign of Vanessa. Where in the world was she? She should have come into view by now.

Nancy hurried into the office and grabbed her Glock. She tucked it in the waistband of her pants and hit speed dial on her cell phone. Vanessa's number. It rang and rang. After the third ring, Nancy hit the end button and raced out the back door of the office and to her car.

She sped into the market parking lot and came to a screeching halt in front of a young man in his early twenties. He was holding a shopping bag in one hand and a phone in the other. The phone was pressed to his ear. His eyes were wide with fright and his voice was animated.

Nancy jumped out of her car and rushed up to him. "Did you see a young, blonde woman just now? She's tall. Five-foot-eight."

The man stared at Nancy for a second and then nodded. "Yeah, yeah. She dropped this." He held up the bag. "Some man punched her in the stomach and shoved her in his car and took off. That way." The young man pointed at the street in the direction the car had gone. "I called the police. They're on their way."

"Good. You did the right thing. I'm Nancy Drew. I'm a detective and a friend of the woman. What kind of car was it? What color?"

The young man described the car. Make and model. Basically, a blue sedan.

"Thank you," Nancy said. "Let the police know I'm pursuing the car. Give them my name, Nancy Drew."

The young man nodded in stunned silence as he watched Nancy jump into her car and drive off. He'd seen the gun in the waistband of her pants.

# # # #

Vanessa blinked and took inventory of her surroundings. The doors were locked and the windows were up. She was handcuffed. Her hands lay uselessly in her lap. She was not seat-belted in. The man at the wheel cast leering glances at her every chance he got. That stoked the flames of her smoldering anger.

They were still in town traveling on one of the main streets of River Heights. It was a four lane street with several stop lights. Those lights impeded their progress. The man cursed every time he had to stop at a red light. Vanessa thanked them, but damn, those lights were coming to an end. There weren't many left. Vanessa had to make a move before this asshole drove her beyond the city limits. Out of town, he'd be on the highway and could go fifty-five to sixty-five miles an hour. At those speeds, he could put a lot of miles between her and Nancy. Vanessa could not let that happen.

She twisted in her seat. Maybe she could get her legs up and kick the guy in the side of the head. Thank goodness, she had worn pants today.

"Quit moving," the man snarled, his teeth bared. He looked like an angry dog. His eyes shifted between her and the road. Traffic was all around him. He was in the left lane of two lanes heading west.

Vanessa grunted and kept twisting, angling herself so that she faced the man. Her body was slow in responding. Must be the aftereffects of the stun gun. She kept at it though, kept twisting. If only she could get her legs up to her chest and in position to strike.

The man reached over, grabbed the front of her shirt, and yanked her to him. Chin to chin.

"Quit moving," he growled.

Hate and lust shone in his eyes. Vanessa knew, somehow or some way, she had to get out of the car and away from him. She glanced out the windshield. They were veering into the right lane. "The road!" she yelled.

"Shit!" The man shoved Vanessa savagely away like he was tossing away a dirty rag. Her head hit the passenger's window with a loud _thunk!_

The man jerked the wheel to the left and the car careened into the path of oncoming traffic. Horns blared, urgent and desperate. Vehicles skidded to death defying stops. Vanessa saw the horrified looks on people's faces.

Just in the nick of time, the man jerked the wheel to the right and swerved back into his original lane. More horns blared and more brakes screeched.

"Shit! You bitch! You almost got us killed!"

# # # #

Nancy's anxiety grew with each passing second. Where was the blue sedan? Had it turned off on a side road? Please, oh please, she hoped it had not. She searched the traffic, concentrating on blue cars. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack. So many cars and so many of them were blue. Then suddenly, up ahead, horns blared and taillights flashed red as people slammed on their brakes. Nancy stomped on her brakes, too, narrowly missing the fender of the car in front of her.

The traffic started moving again. Slow and hesitant. Nancy wondered what had caused all the brake lights and horns. Did it have anything to do with Vanessa? Only one way to find out. Nancy drove more aggressively. She weaved in and out of the lanes. Worked her way forward, searching for what, or who, had almost caused a major traffic accident.

# # # #

The man turned off the main street and onto a side road. Vanessa's heart sank and her fear escalated. They were on a residential street. Houses with small front yards zipped by. The man was driving too fast, suddenly in a hurry to get somewhere.

A stop sign loomed up ahead. This was Vanessa's chance. She drew in a deep breath to oxygenate her blood. The car slowed and she pulled her knees to her chest. The movement was quick and agile. The man turned his head to leer at her. The soles of her shoes slammed into his face with substantial force. She tried to kick him again, but his hands – powerful hands – wrapped around her ankles. It felt as if he could crush her bones with his bare hands. She cried out in pain.

He laughed and shoved her legs into the footwell. Then he looked at her, waited for her eyes to meet his. Blood trickled from his nose and Vanessa secretly smiled. Her kick had done some damage. Then he smacked her hard across the face. Her head flew into the dashboard and bounced off. Shock suppressed the pain. Pain would come later, if there was a later, and Vanessa prayed there would be.

The man grabbed a handful of her shirt and brought her face to his. "I give the orders and you follow them. You don't follow the orders, you get hit. You think that was hard? You think I hit you hard? Do you?"

Vanessa stared into the man's hate filled eyes wondering if she dared answer.

"Do you?!"

She nodded.

"That wasn't hard. That was a love tap. If I'd hit you hard, you'd be dead. Remember that."

He released her and she slumped in the seat. He showed her his fist and stared at her. Vanessa saw the truth in his words. One good swing of that fist and she would be dead. He saw the realization in her eyes and smirked. Then his gaze roamed over her body, taking his time, taking in her torn shirt and red face. He seemed to like what he saw. Vanessa held her tears in check. She could cry later. If later came.

The man turned back to the steering wheel and put the car in drive. Vanessa's teary gaze flickered to the console and her heart skipped a beat. The stun gun. Could she grab it and shock him? Her hands were handcuffed. That made everything difficult. How to grab the gun. It was a big risk. Should she take it?

How long had she been in this car? Ten minutes? Twenty? It felt like hours. Her life was slipping out of her control. Choices she made now determined whether she lived or died.

She thought about the door. It was locked. She could press the unlock button and jump out. Maybe. Another tricky maneuver with her hands cuffed. Jumping out would be dangerous, too. If she hurt herself, and that seemed likely, she was a goner. He'd be on her in minutes. He was going to hear the door unlock. God, he'd probably grab her before she even had a chance to jump out. If, by some miracle, she did manage to get out of the car and not get hurt, she still wasn't out of danger. The man would stop the car and run after her. She had no doubt he would catch her, beat her, and drag her back to the car.

Vanessa scanned the street … the houses, the sidewalks. No one was out and about. There was no one to come to her aid.

Back to the stun gun. It seemed the best option. Stun the man. Incapacitate him. Make it so he couldn't hurt her or chase her. That was the only way she was going to get out of this.

She lifted her hands and brushed tangled hair out of her face. Surreptitiously, she eyed the stun gun. It was right there, on the console. She looked at the road. They had passed from the residential neighborhood and into a rural area. The road was rougher and the houses farther apart. The man blew through a stop sign. Fewer cars and fewer people to worry about or get in his way.

She had to make a move. She had to do something before they were completely out of town.

 _Grab it! Grab the stun gun._

The car was slowing. They were coming to a stop sign. A car was coming from the right. The man had to stop to let the car pass. This was it. He would be paying attention to the road and not to her.

 _Grab the stun gun!_

The man braked hard and Vanessa fell forward. The man looked to his left, checking for more cars. A lucky break for Vanessa. She brought her hands down and scooped up the gun. It was an awkward move, a bit of a scramble, but she got it. She wrapped her fingers around it, rammed the gun into his side, and pressed the button. He roared in pain and fury. Vanessa held the button down. The contacts crackled bright. Two seconds, three, four. The man collapsed on the steering wheel and she withdrew the gun. No, she didn't feel confident he was incapacitated. Already, he was groaning and twitching. She pressed the gun to his side and shocked him again. He flailed and roared some more then lay motionless. Vanessa withdrew the gun. The man was hunched over the steering wheel like he'd passed out from drinking.

 _Enough! Get out of the car!_

She twisted to the right, hit the unlock button, and threw the door open. She flung herself out of the car. Fell on the ground, picked herself up and started running. She was shaking like a leaf in a windstorm. Adrenaline, fear, and anger pushed her onward. She stumbled and almost fell. No, not now. Not when she was finally free. She caught herself at the last second and kept running. She heard the man behind her. He was out of the car and chasing her.

"You bitch!"

She heard his heavy footsteps gaining on her. The stun gun didn't seem to have affected him as much as she'd hoped. The stun gun! She'd dropped it when she fell out of the car.

 _No! Oh, God, no!_ She had nothing to defend herself with. Wait, what was that in the distance?

The man tackled her from behind and they went down in a heap. Vanessa hit the pavement hard and pain sparked in her elbows, knees, and chest. The man flipped her on her back and she lay helpless, staring into his hate filled eyes. She couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. The breath had been knocked out of her.

The man pulled back a fist. A big, meaty fist. She was dead. This was how her life ended. Not the way she would have liked.

Brakes _screeeeeched!_ The front end of a car rocked to a stop mere feet from Vanessa and the man. The man's head jerked to the right and his angry scowl zeroed in on a young woman. A young, blonde woman with coppery highlights. It was the woman he didn't like. The professional woman from the detective agency who reminded him of the women in the Marine Corps.

She held a gun, two fisted and straight armed. Looked like she knew what she was doing. Like maybe this wasn't her first time holding a gun or dealing with a criminal situation.

"Get up! Put your hands in the air and step away from the woman." The woman's voice was commanding. Authoritative. Sounded like a cop.

The man sneered at Vanessa. He had dropped his arm when the coppery blonde had gotten out of the car. Now, he lifted his arm, made a fist, and prepared to strike.

A bullet zipped over his left shoulder. He ducked and cursed. "You fucking bitch!"

"That was a warning shot. I will shoot you if you force me to." No sympathy in her voice. Just a statement of hard facts. "Put your hands in the air and move slowly away from the woman."

The man spun and lunged at Nancy. She dipped to the side, out of the way, and spun back around to him. It was all very graceful, like a dancer's spin. She brought her Glock level with his chest and stared down the barrel at him.

Vanessa watched from the ground in abject horror.

# # # #

Nancy's index finger was on the trigger, ready and willing to shoot. The man stood before her thinking the situation over, weighing the pros and cons. He came to a decision and turned and ran for the car.

Nancy fired at his feet, caught in that murky, gray area of shooting a fleeing suspect. No justification. He hadn't killed anybody yet. The bullets impacted the pavement with dull thuds. The driver's side door was wide open. He jumped in, slammed the door shut, and hit the gas. The passenger's door was open, flapping in the wind as he sped away, spitting gravel.

Nancy tucked her gun in her waistband and rushed to Vanessa. "Are you okay?"

Vanessa nodded, a shaky, trembling nod. Overwhelming relief flooded her body. She was safe. Battered, but safe.

"I'm taking you to the hospital," Nancy said.

Vanessa shook her head. "No. Take me home."

Nancy was familiar with the response. She had seen it many times as a Chicago police officer. Domestic violence cases. After the men were carted off to jail the women often just wanted to go home and lick their wounds. Sit and wonder how such a horrible thing had happened to them.

"You need to be checked by a doctor and we need to inform the police of what happened." Nancy was being reasonable and spoke soothingly.

Vanessa sniffed back tears and nodded. She motioned with her cuffed hand. "Help me up."

Nancy hooked an arm under Vanessa's elbow and helped her to her feet. Vanessa was trembling. The aftereffects of a traumatic event. Her legs were wobbly and she was cold. Her head throbbed where she had hit it on the dashboard and her ribs hurt. Nancy was right, she should be seen by a doctor.

Nancy slid an arm around Vanessa's waist. "Here, I'll help you to the car."

As the women stepped toward Nancy's idling car a police cruiser pulled up beside it. Two police officers climbed out and approached the women with caution, their hands on their service revolvers. When they got a good look at Vanessa – her torn clothing and swollen face – their hands fell away from their weapons.

Nancy turned to the officers. "I'm Nancy Drew. This is Vanessa Bender. She was abducted by a man in a blue sedan." Nancy gave the license plate number and make and model of the vehicle. "He just sped away." She pointed down the road.

The blue sedan was a small square on the horizon.

Vanessa stood next to Nancy and wondered if the police would catch the man. If they didn't, would he try to abduct another woman? Suddenly, it was all too much. She'd been through too much in too short a time. She put her head in her cuffed hands and sobbed. Nancy pulled her into a warm and comforting embrace.

* * *

 _A/N: Hi, all! Thank you for the reviews on the last chapter. It's so nice to hear that you are still enjoying the story. I know a lot of you have been waiting for this chapter: Vanessa, Nancy, and the Predator. Have to admit, he gives me the shivers._


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter 32

Vanessa sat on the examining room table. She was draped in a hospital gown. It provided little coverage and no warmth. A blanket covered her legs and yet, she was still cold. Ice cold, like she was sitting in a freezer. She shivered, hugged herself, and rubbed her arms to generate heat.

"I'm so cold," she said.

Nancy, who stood beside the table, laid a consoling hand on Vanessa's blanketed knee. Vanessa had insisted Nancy be with her. She couldn't bear to endure this exam alone.

"You are emotionally and physically exhausted," Nancy said. "You've been through a major, traumatic event. Being cold is a natural and normal response. Shivering is your body's way of trying to warm itself up."

Vanessa nodded. Yes, of course. She knew that at some level. However, she wasn't thinking clearly at the moment. Had to be the _traumatic event_ as Nancy called it. What an innocuous way of saying a person had been abducted and assaulted.

A female doctor entered the room and nodded a greeting at each woman. She was in her late forties, had short, graying hair, and a kind smile. "I hear you were attacked in a parking lot and taken for quite a terrifying ride." The doctor's tone was light, but Vanessa sensed the doctor understood the horror Vanessa had been through and sympathized with her.

Vanessa nodded and tears filled the corners of her eyes.

"But you escaped," the doctor said softly. "That's something to be proud of."

Vanessa nodded and dabbed the corner of her eye with a finger. Lucky or proud. Which was it? If Nancy had not shown up when she did, Vanessa would be dead. That thought kept pressing on her brain and she wished it wouldn't.

The doctor consulted the chart in her hand and looked at Vanessa. "The police report says you were assaulted. I have to check your wounds. I promise to be gentle."

Vanessa nodded her consent. The main objective was to get the exam over and done so she could go home and rest .. and cry.

Nancy watched discreetly as the doctor examined Vanessa. The doctor's gentle demeanor quelled Vanessa's frayed nerves and she relaxed a bit. The doctor was careful and thorough. She asked pertinent questions as she conducted the exam and noted Vanessa's remarks and injuries on a police form. _Bruises on victim's forehead and cheek. Rub marks on the victim's wrists from flexi-cuffs. Tenderness and swelling on elbows, knees, and chest from being slammed into the ground. Possible fracture of the ribs. Possible mild concussion from hitting forehead on dashboard_.

Finally, the exam was over. "I'm sending you for chest X-rays," the doctor told Vanessa. "Those will determine if your ribs are bruised or fractured. My guess would be bruised, but I like to err on the side of caution. If you have a fracture the X-rays will tell us. An orderly will be by shortly to take you to the lab. I'll see you again after the technician reads the X-rays."

# # # #

Nancy stayed in the exam room while Vanessa was getting the X-rays. The quiet and solitude gave Nancy a chance to replay the morning's events in her mind. A lot had happened, a lot of it in a rush, and she needed time to process it. When she and Vanessa first arrived at the hospital, a police detective had met them and taken their statements and descriptions of the suspect. The police detective had expressed his sympathy and concern for Vanessa and promised to do everything in his power to bring the perpetrator to justice.

The detective was older, Hispanic, and quite distressed by Vanessa's abduction. River Heights was a small town, his home for forty-five years. Abductions in this small town were extremely rare he'd stated and hoped it remained that way. He'd pulled on a pair of latex gloves, gently removed the flexi-cuffs from Vanessa's wrists, and bagged and tagged them. They were now evidence. The detective then told the women the police were pursuing the perp. Patrol cars were stationed along the roads and intersections and a police helicopter was in the air searching the woods and farmland from above. Police officers from nearby towns were joining the search, too.

Nancy was optimistic. With all of that manpower there was a good chance the suspect would be apprehended.

She hated that he had escaped, but replaying the events in her mind, she realized there was nothing she could have done differently to prevent it. She had been under tremendous pressure when she'd confronted the man. His bulk had blocked her view of Vanessa on the ground. All Nancy could see was the man's massive fist ready to pummel someone on the ground. Nancy had assumed (correctly) that that person was Vanessa.

The man had not been intimidated by Nancy or her Glock and her warning shot over his shoulder had enraged him rather than frighten him. When he spun and lunged at her, his size had momentarily terrified her. He was huge, taller than Frank and twice as muscular. Frank stood a solid six-one. This man was a generous six-four with the biceps of a body builder.

The worse part was, Nancy had not even had a chance to glance at Vanessa. Nancy had no idea if her friend was alive, dead, or severely wounded. The man consumed Nancy's attention. He was her sole focus. She'd aimed her Glock straight at his chest and, thankfully, he'd decided to turn and run. It had taken Nancy a second to determine her course of action. Shooting him in the back was out of the question, unless he produced a weapon. And that could happen. He might be running to the vehicle to retrieve a gun. That possibility had kept Nancy's eyes riveted on the man.

When he slammed the car door shut, Nancy's heart had jumped into her throat. She feared he was going to back the car up and run over Vanessa and herself. She had shifted her aim to the tires, but shooting the tires was an absolute last resort. It went against every bit of her police training. Tires were small targets and generally in motion. Two factors that made them notoriously hard to hit, especially when the person shooting was under extreme pressure as Nancy certainly was. Even if Nancy managed to hit a tire it did not mean it would deflate. Many in fact did not. And even if it did deflate, the vehicle was still operational. A flat tire merely slowed the perp down. It did not stop him. The man could still run them over.

But the factor that stilled Nancy's finger on the trigger was the deadliest one of all and the reason police officers were trained to avoid shooting out tires.

 _Ricochets._

Cars were made of metal. A car's tires were surrounded by metal. If a police officer's shot missed then the bullet could ricochet off of the vehicle and hurt or kill a person. Vanessa and Nancy were too close to the vehicle for Nancy to risk such a shot. When the sedan sped away, Nancy had gasped in relief and rushed to check on Vanessa. Nancy had kept an eye on the sedan, just in case, but the man seemed intent on fleeing.

Nancy let out a shaky breath. The morning had taken an emotional toll on her as well. The experienced had been draining. During the drive to the hospital, Nancy had made sure to praise Vanessa for her quick thinking and actions. Those actions had saved her life.

While Vanessa was changing into the hospital gown, Nancy had phoned Muriel Boggs and delivered the heart wrenching news that Vanessa had been abducted. Nancy had quickly added that Vanessa was safe and sound and at the hospital.

Muriel was shaken and wanted to rush to the hospital. Nancy had dissuaded the older woman by gently telling her there was nothing she could do at the hospital except stand around and wait. Nancy was capable of doing that all by herself. Muriel had seen the wisdom in those words and acquiesced. Nancy had promised Vanessa would be home soon and would need to rest.

Nancy could use some rest herself.

"I'll get her bed ready and make some hot tea," Muriel had said. "You'll call me if anything changes or if they decide to keep Vanessa overnight, won't you?"

"Yes, of course," Nancy had said.

Phoning Vanessa's aunt and informing her of the abduction had been difficult and unpleasant. Nancy hated being the bearer of bad news. As a police officer in Chicago she had done it more times then she cared to remember. Luckily, this time, there had been good news. Vanessa was safe and relatively unharmed.

Nancy sighed. One phone call down and one to go. The first call was nothing compared to the one she still had to make. She still had to phone Joe and Frank.

Nancy fidgeted in her chair. She was not looking forward to telling Joe about Vanessa's abduction.

# # # #

Joe and Frank entered the Healy Police Station at twelve-thirty pm and asked to see Sergeant Wyman. She had a few minutes to spare and readily agreed to meet them. All three gathered in her homey office.

Wyman sat behind her desk, her hands clasped in her lap. "I heard you two found a body last night."

Joe laughed. "Wow, news travels fast."

"Small town," Wyman said. "I should warn you though, poking around on Nicholson's properties can be a dangerous thing."

"We're well aware of that," Frank said. "We heard that two more bodies were discovered on the property this morning."

Wyman grinned like a mother indulging her sons. "You're a little behind in the reporting. The counts up to six bodies now."

Joe sank back in his chair. Six bodies? "Any word on the bodies? Are they all men? Maybe hobos from that shipping container graveyard?"

"Whoa." Wyman chuckled and held up a hand. "Way too many questions and I can't answer any of them. You'll have to talk to Ziegler. He's the lead on the investigation."

Frank said, "We plan to."

"So, what brings you two to my office?" Wyman glanced at each brother and waited.

Joe leaned forward, put his elbows on his knee, and folded his hands together. "We'd like to know what's happening with Gerald Harris and Clay Peters, the men accused of raping Connie Marshall."

"Ahh, those two." An expression of disgust darkened Wyman's face. "Their current story is that the sex was consensual and Miss Marshall liked it rough. Well, that don't fly with me as you two probably guessed. I'm not about to let those thugs get away with a vicious rape and assault. No way in hell. They're being arraigned this afternoon and if they plead 'not guilty' as I expect them to, then they're going to trial. I've already talked to Miss Marshall and she's agreed to testify if necessary. I think Peggy MacDonald has been a positive influence on that young lady and has convinced Miss Marshall she needs to hold these men accountable for their actions."

Joe and Frank nodded their agreement.

"Those two are going down." Wyman was clearly pleased by the prospect. "Rape is a Class One Felony. They're looking at some serious prison time."

"As they should be," Frank added succinctly.

He and Joe rose, thanked Sergeant Wyman for her time and diligent police work, and left. They walked down the hall and to the front desk. Joe leaned against the desk and asked the sergeant when Detective Ziegler was expected to return to the Station.

The desk sergeant was a young, fit guy in his twenties. His uniform was neat and the creases sharp. "You're in luck," he said. "Ziegler just radioed in that he was headed this way."

"Good," Joe said. "If you don't mind, could you radio him back and say that Joe and Frank Hardy are here and would like to speak to him?"

The sergeant shrugged his broad shoulders. "Sure. You can have a seat in the lobby."

"One other thing," Joe said, "I was wondering if we could see Wayne Banyan. He's my client."

The sergeant gave Joe a doubtful look. "Client? Are you his lawyer?"

"No," a feminine voice said behind Joe. He spun and saw Monica LaMarca standing behind him. She was sleek and professional. No thrills, no frills. Her freshly pressed business suit declared she was _all_ business. She clasped a thin, leather briefcase in her right hand.

"I'm his lawyer." Monica cast a wry grin at Joe, stepped around him, and approached the desk. She directed her attention to the sergeant. "Mr. Banyan has an appointment with me and a psychiatrist in an hour. The psychiatrist will be here shortly to interview Mr. Banyan. I was told we could use one of the interrogation rooms?"

The sergeant smiled broadly at Monica. It was obvious he found her attractive. "That's right, Ms. LaMarca. The room's been approved by Detective Ziegler and the Police Chief. I'll check and see if it's ready. Excuse me."

As the sergeant hurried down the hall to check on the room, Monica turned to Joe. "Is there a reason you want to see Mr. Banyan?"

Joe had to smile. Monica LaMarca was nothing if not direct. No beating around the bush for her. More likely to find her beating the bushes. "I wanted to let him know we're making progress on his case," Joe said. "Six bodies have been discovered on land owned by Kyle Nicholson."

Monica cocked her head and eyed Joe for a long moment. "How exactly does that help Mr. Banyan or his case?"

Joe had to admit it was a good question. "Well, it um .."

Frank came to the rescue. "It throws suspicion on Nicholson. Joe and I are working on the theory that there's a connection between Nicholson, some hobos living at a shipping container graveyard, and the recent murders in Healy. That includes the murders of Dan Sagget and Dolores Gage. We believe that Nicholson, or someone working for him, is responsible for all of these murders."

Monica exchanged glances with the brothers. "You're working on a theory? Sounds like you two still have a lot of work to do. I'm not sure I'll tell Mr. Banyan anything yet. I don't want to get his hopes up prematurely."

Frank opened his mouth to say something and decided against it. Instead, he nodded. "That seems reasonable."

"Hey," Joe said, "could you let Banyan know that Bulka's doing fine. We're taking real good care of her."

Monica smiled. "I'll pass the information along. I'm sure he'll be happy to hear that."

The young desk sergeant returned and smiled broadly at Monica again. "The room's ready for you, Ms. LaMarca. I can take you back now if you'd like."

"Yes, I'd like that very much. It'll give me a chance to set up my notebook and tape recorder. Thank you." Monica turned to Joe and Frank. "I'll talk to you two later."

Joe and Frank watched Monica and the sergeant walk down the hall and into a room.

"Now we wait for Ziegler," Frank said and jerked his chin at the chairs in the lobby.

Joe gave a helpless shrug. "Guess we do."

Fortunately, the wait was short. Only ten minutes. Ziegler came in through a back door of the station and walked to the front desk. He asked if there were any messages for him. The desk sergeant said no and pointed to Joe and Frank sitting in the lobby.

Ziegler made eye contact with the brothers and motioned them to follow him to his office.

They didn't go directly to his office. Ziegler made a stop in the breakroom for a much needed cup of coffee. "Haven't slept in over twenty-four hours," he announced. "Coffee's the only thing keeping me going right now." He got his coffee black and the trio proceeded to his office.

Ziegler took a sip of his coffee and set it on his desk. Frank closed the office door and he and Joe sat in the chairs in front of Ziegler's desk. Ziegler took off his jacket, hung it on a coat-rack in the corner, and ran his hands through his hair. He looked like a man who hadn't slept in twenty-four hours. His eyes were red and his skin pale.

He plopped in his chair and pulled himself to his desk. "Well, we got inside the white building." He picked up his coffee and sipped.

"You did?" Joe tried to the hide the expectation in his voice.

Ziegler was beat. Bone tired. He barely registered Joe's response. "Yeah. Nothing there."

Joe's brows shot up. "Huh? What do you mean, nothing there?" His voice was louder than he wanted and a little excited.

Ziegler seemed to perk up a bit and eyed Joe suspiciously. "Just what I said. Nothing there. The place was empty except for that God awful smell. Bomb squad and me went round and round trying to ID the smell. Best any of us could figure is it's a dead animal." Ziegler shrugged. "Maybe something crawled in there and died."

Joe rubbed his chin. No snakes? That was a surprise. Actually, more like a shock. Where the hell were they?

"What's the matter?" Ziegler was staring at Joe.

"Huh?"

Ziegler's brow lowered. "You look puzzled. Like you were expecting us to find something significant in that building."

"Well, yeah, I was. I mean, it stands to reason that Nicholson kept something in there. The bad smell and Bulka's reaction to it confirms that." Joe was not going to mention the snakes.

Ziegler waved Joe's comments aside. "The dog could've been reacting to the smell of death. Nobody likes that smell, not even a dog."

"True," Joe said slowly. The wheels in his head were churning. Where were those blasted snakes? "But Bulka's trained for that smell. She wouldn't have reacted the way she did if it was just a dead animal or person. This smell was different. You, yourself, just said so."

Ziegler took another sip of his coffee and swallowed. "Yeah, well, I don't know what to tell you. The place was empty. Just a bunch of windowless rooms and pipes on the ceiling." He frowned and said, "None of us could figure out those exposed pipes either. They looked like misters. What the heck did Nicholson keep in there that required moisture? Exotic plants?"

Joe shrugged. "Marijuana plants?"

"I doubt it," Frank said in his rational tone. "Plants – well, most plants – need sunlight. You said there were no windows."

"I did." Ziegler gave a quick nod. He leaned forward, rested an elbow on his desk, and stroked his chin thoughtfully. "That building is a mystery. And Nicholson did not want to discuss it."

"You questioned him this morning?" Frank said.

Ziegler looked at Frank. "Yeah, the man's got nothing to say about pretty much everything. Says he didn't know there were bodies buried on his property and he doesn't have a clue how they got there. _But_ he did admit to knowing about the building. Said he had it built years ago, never really used it, and it's sat vacant for years. Claims he forgot it was there."

Joe snorted softly. "I don't believe any of that." Of course, Joe knew Nicholson was lying. Deke Boxberger had confronted Joe and Frank the day after their nighttime visit to the snake house and had warned them to stay away from it and everything owned by Nicholson. Deke and Nicholson had seen Joe and Frank on the video cameras. Those and everything else in the building were now, apparently, gone. Moved to a new location.

Ziegler smiled faintly. "I don't believe any of it either, but that's the story Nicholson's going with and he's lawyered up. That tells me he's scared. Gotta say, I like that. There was something I liked even better. I saw a scintilla of fear in his eyes this morning when I mentioned the bodies. He's worried. I can feel it and it feels good."

That feeling flowed right into Joe and he felt good, too. If Nicholson was lawyering up and looking a bit fearful, then he and Frank were on the right path. They were closing in and drawing the noose tight around Nicholson's neck. "Just wondering," Joe said, "have you heard from your inside source lately?"

The smile faded from Ziegler's face. "No, he's been quiet the last few days. I'm trying not to read too much in to that, but it does have me worried."

Joe nodded. He wondered if the source had been found out. Could he be one of the bodies buried by the white building?

"If you know where he lives," Frank said, "Joe and I could drive by his place and check on him."

"Don't know anything about him." There was regret in Ziegler's voice. "He's just a voice on the phone. He wanted it that way to protect himself."

Smart and understandable, Joe thought. "Another question, have you IDed any of the bodies?"

"Yeah, we took your friend, Whiskey, out there this morning and he IDed two of bodies. Said they were hobos who'd gone missing a month or two ago. It really tore him up to see his buddies dead and discarded like that." Ziegler wiped sweat off his brow. It had been a rough morning. A _long_ , ugly, rough morning. "Whiskey knew one of the men well enough that he remembered the name of the man's mother and where she lives. We'll contact her to confirm it's her son. The other three bodies look like hobos to me, but Whiskey didn't know them and hadn't seen them before. We're still working on IDing them."

The office door opened and the young desk sergeant stuck his head in. He looked at the Hardy brothers and then at Ziegler. "Sorry to interrupt, but the Chief's asking for you. He wants the latest update on what's happening at the white building and what's going on with Nicholson."

Ziegler blew out a tired breath. "Tell him I'll be there in a minute."

"Sure thing." The sergeant closed the door.

Ziegler placed his hands on his desk and pushed himself upright. "Well, that's it for now. I'll let you know if we find any more bodies."

"Thanks," Joe said and thought, 'thanks?' That was definitely the wrong word. Who thanked a person for finding bodies?

It was a quarter to two when Joe and Frank left Ziegler's office. They exited the Police Station and walked down the concrete steps and to the parking lot. As they neared Frank's SUV, his cell phone buzzed.

He looked at the caller ID and then at Joe. "It's Nancy."

Joe thought it was an odd time for Nancy to call. "Wonder what she wants?"

"We're about to find out." Frank pressed the accept button and put the phone to his ear.

* * *

 _A/N: Thanks for the reviews on the previous chapter. I try to respond to everyone who reviews. If I missed you I'm very sorry, but I do appreciate your review. I also like when readers ask questions about the story. That lets me know what I need to explain better or more thoroughly. Thanks again everyone._


	33. Chapter 33

Chapter 33

Nancy ended the call. It had been brief and to the point. Frank was now telling Joe what Nancy had said. She laid her phone on her desk and looked at Vanessa sitting on the long sofa in the _Endeavor_ office. A suitcase lay on the floor by Vanessa's feet.

"Thank you," Vanessa whispered and her bottom lip quivered. She had rested for two hours and felt somewhat better. Over-the-counter pain meds were doing their job and keeping the pain to a dull hum. Vanessa's ribs were bruised, not fractured. Still, it hurt when she took a deep breath.

Nancy pushed back from her desk, went to the sofa, and sat beside Vanessa. "Joe's going to call you any second." Nancy peered at the cell phone nestled in Vanessa's hands and then to Vanessa's tension filled face. "Are you ready?"

Nancy meant, emotionally ready. Vanessa nodded. The women had talked this over for the past fifteen minutes. Vanessa had tried twice to phone Joe and couldn't do it, not without breaking down into tears. The words, _Joe, I was attacked_ , caught in her throat every time. She simply could not say the words. So, Nancy had said them to Frank and Frank would say them to Joe.

Nancy had suggested this approach based on the fact the women didn't know where the men were at the moment. They could be in a meeting with Detective Ziegler and wouldn't want to be disturbed.

Frank had phoned Nancy that morning and filled her in on 'the boys' nighttime activities. Their visit to the Colonel, the stealing of a sock, and the discovery of Sims' body near the white building. It had been a late night, Frank had said, and he and Joe were getting a late start today. They planned on going to the police station that afternoon.

The phone in Vanessa's hands buzzed and she flinched. She sucked in a breath, steadied her nerves, and put the phone on speaker.

"Vanessa?! Babe. Are you okay?" A lot of emotions whirled in Joe's voice. Fear, anger, concern, and love.

Vanessa put steel and grit into her voice. She did not want Joe worrying about her. He needed to focus on his case. "I'm fine, babe. A few bumps and bruises. Please, don't worry about me, Joe. Nancy was there quickly. She saved me."

Nancy didn't quite agree. She shook her head and spoke into the phone, "Vanessa saved herself, Joe. She fought back. She tasered the man with his own taser and managed to get out of the vehicle."

Joe breathed hard like he was clearing dust out of his throat. "That-that's great, babe. Really, it is. It's better than great. God, you're so strong and beautiful and I don't deserve you. Not in any way, shape, or form. But I never should have left you behind. Dammit, I should've stayed in River Heights."

The guilt in Joe's impassioned voice tore at Vanessa's heart. This was the last thing she wanted – Joe feeling guilty about what had happened to her. This was _not_ his fault. A hidden strength erupted in her bloodstream and surged through her body. She sat straighter and bolder.

"No, you are staying where you are and doing your job." The heat in Vanessa's words charged through the phone line. "You're on a case and you have to work it. I'm to blame, Joe. I brought this on myself. Nancy wanted to go to the market with me. She practically insisted, but I turned her down. Part of me didn't believe the danger was real. I .. I made a mistake and I've learned from it."

"I'm coming home," Joe said firmly. "Case or no case, I have to see you, babe."

"No, Joe. You're not coming home." Vanessa was stern, but gentle. "Nancy and I are coming to you and Frank. We're leaving soon."

Nancy leaned in closer to the phone in Vanessa's hand. "Vanessa and I talked it over. We're leaving in thirty minutes. We're both packed and ready to go. Vanessa's aunt gave her the rest of the week off and I spent the past hour clearing my schedule so I'm free until Monday."

Frank came on the line. The smile in his voice was unmistakable. "That's the best news we've heard all day. Joe's nodding his head in agreement. We can't wait to see both of you."

# # # #

Frank drove out of the Police Station parking lot. Joe sat in the passenger's seat thrumming with adrenaline. Tension rippled up his body, to his neck and shoulders, and to his hands. His fuse was lit and burning. His anger was like a second skin, exposed and hot to the touch.

Frank sensed Joe's anger and felt a need to defuse it or at least, tamp it down. "How 'bout we stop by the grocery store, pick up something for dinner. The girls like salmon and chicken. Maybe we could get one of those and grill it outside."

Joe wasn't really listening. A scenario was running through his head on a loop: a man tasering Vanessa and shoving her in his car. Joe couldn't stop thinking about it, although, he knew he should. The damage was done. He couldn't undo it. Again, the scene replayed and Joe's pulse thumped. A vein in his neck bulged and the fingers on his right hand squeezed into a tight fist. Someone had to pay for attacking his fiancée. Actually, someone was going to pay for attacking his fiancée and Joe knew exactly who that someone was. Deke Boxberger.

"Joe, did you hear me?"

Joe rotated his head and brought his eyes to bear on Frank. "What?"

"I asked if we should stop by the grocery store and get something for dinner. Something the girls like." Frank didn't like the look in Joe's eyes. They were as icy as a glacier. Cold and unforgiving.

"No," Joe said. He stared out the windshield, avoiding eye contact with his brother. "There's something I need to do first. Someone I need to see."

A muscle in Frank's cheek twitched. "Should I be afraid to ask who?"

Joe peered at Frank peripherally. "Maybe."

Frank sighed and let out a frustrated breath. "You know I have to ask. Who?"

"Boxberger."

Frank frowned. "Boxberger? Why do you want to see him?"

"He's responsible for what happened to Vanessa." Joe's voice was calm and level. Reasonable.

Frank watched the road and nodded. "I agree with you. If not Boxberger, then Nicholson."

"Nicholson gives the orders. Boxberger carries them out. Responsibility lies with Boxberger. End of discussion."

"Then we're going to see Boxberger," Frank said.

Joe turned his head and sneered at his brother. "We?"

"Yes, we. You're all fired up. You can't go alone. You'll probably do something stupid when you see Boxberger."

"Exactly why you shouldn't come with me," Joe countered.

"No, it's exactly why I should go with you. To keep you from doing something stupid and winding up in jail. Think about Vanessa. You want her visiting you in jail tonight?"

The corner of Joe's upper lip lifted in a sneer. Frank just _had_ to play the Vanessa card. Okay, fine. Frank's presence would be – no – might be, a deterrent and that might be a good thing because, at the moment, Joe wanted to kill Deke Boxberger. So, in a lot of ways, he didn't want a deterrent. But in another way, he knew he needed one.

The brothers got to the rental house and climbed out of the SUV. They had to check on Bulka and Joe had to figure out where Boxberger lived. A few Google searches should do the trick.

Bulka greeted them at the door with sharp barks of joy and frantic tail swooshing. Her tail wagged so hard her back paws slid on the wooden floors. She moved from one brother to the other, receiving pets and comforting words. Joe stroked her fur and let her lick his face. Her joy at seeing him and Frank always surprised him and made him hate leaving her alone.

An hour and a half later, Joe and Frank were back in the SUV and backing out of the driveway. Bulka was in her car carrier in the cargo area of the SUV. Joe wasn't happy about bringing her. The brothers had argued about it and in the end, Frank had won. His vehicle, his decision.

Joe rolled down his window, put his arm on the window sill, and glowered. He hated losing. It didn't come easy to him. But now, he was determined to forget the argument with his brother and redirect his anger. Focus it on Deke Boxberger, a more appropriate target.

Cool air and smells from the river swept into the vehicle as Frank drove down the road. After a few miles they came into a forested area. Maples, oaks, and pines lined the road and flashed by the window.

Frank's GPS told him to turn right at the next street. Joe felt a rush of adrenaline and his skin tingled. They were getting closer. Only one question, would Deke be home? Joe sure as hell hoped so.

# # # #

Deke Boxberger parked his red truck on the gravel driveway, stormed into his house, and threw his keys on the kitchen counter. Well, all hell had officially broken loose. That detective – Ziegler – had to be feeling pretty smug right about now. He'd hauled Nicholson in for questioning and had officers crawling all over the property where the snake shack was.

Deke pulled off his jacket and flung it over the back of a chair at the dining room table. At least, he'd been smart as far as the snakes were concerned. After Joe and Frank Hardy had stumbled upon them, Deke had suggested to Nicholson that they move the creatures. Empty out the entire shack. Nicholson had agreed. The snakes and anything that wasn't bolted down were moved the next day. One less problem for Nicholson to face should the Hardys alert Ziegler to the snake shack. No more illegal, dangerous animals to explain. There were federal charges for having some of them.

Deke ran his hands through his short, dark blond hair. Still agitated, still wound up. One day, Nicholson – and by association, Deke – was on top of the world. The next, everything had gone to hell. Or appeared that it had. Might be too early to accurately gauge.

Deke yanked open the refrigerator. He needed something to take the edge off and relieve the stress. A stress that had been building all day. He grabbed a can of beer, popped the top, and took a long chug. Yeah, that tasted good. Damn, he'd needed that. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and exhaled. Felt his body relax a little. Okay, his heartrate was finally calming down.

He rested his hips against the kitchen counter and stared into the distance. Thinking. Thinking about who was to blame for this sudden change in fortune. For this mess he and Nicholson were now in.

One name sprang to mind. Joe Hardy.

Deke took a sip of his beer and grinned. Hardy knew about those snakes. Chances were, he'd gone back to that shack for another look around the property and had found the bodies.

Deke's heartrate kicked up a notch. So much for relaxing. Goddamn, Hardy. Why'd he have to poke his nose where it didn't belong? Just couldn't leave well enough. Had to keep investigating.

Well, one day – one day soon – Deke was going to make Hardy pay.

Deke swallowed more beer and started thinking about dinner. Maybe he should drive out to Ames. Rachel would be there tonight. He could apologize for his abrupt departure the other night. Maybe she'd come home with him. The sound of a car engine outside drew his attention. He set the beer on the counter, walked past the dining room table, into the living room, and looked out the big, bay window. Unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable. Hardy and his brother were here. On his property.

The gods were either smiling on Deke or laughing at him. His hand went to the hunting knife sheathed on his belt. Just making sure it was there. Then Deke headed for the door.

# # # #

Deke's place wasn't hard to find. The red pickup truck in the driveway was a dead giveaway. Frank swung into the driveway and killed the engine. A line of pine trees screened Deke's trailer from other trailers on the road.

Joe opened his car door and surveyed the trailer. A new singlewide trailer with a sturdy, wooden porch. Nice place. The lawn was maintained, too. Recently mowed. Seemed Deke took some pride in ownership.

Frank got out of the vehicle and went to the back to release Bulka. The front door of the trailer opened and Deke stepped out onto his porch. If you asked Joe, he'd say Deke didn't look entirely unhappy to see him and Frank. A curious reaction that made Joe hesitate, only for an instant, but in that time he saw Deke's eyes change. They sharpened and his body shifted, a subtle tensing.

Joe walked toward the porch, adrenaline surging. He heard Frank slam the hatch of his SUV.

Deke came down the porch steps in a hurry. "Hardy, you better have a damn good reason for being on my property."

Joe stopped four feet from Deke. The men were equally matched in height and built.

Joe stabbed a finger in Deke's face. "You sent someone after my fiancée, you bastard. They hurt her. Hurt her bad."

That brought Deke up short. His brain quickly processed the information and anger sparked in his gut. That crazy-ass, rogue Marine. He'd attacked Hardy's girlfriend. Gone after her when Deke had told him explicitly not to. Deke didn't have time for this.

Joe saw Deke thinking it over, getting ready to deny any knowledge of the incident. Bulka whined behind him, questioning this visit and Joe's rage. Frank stood by silently, a tight grip on Bulka's leash.

A corner of Deke's mouth lifted in disgust. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Hardy."

"That's how you wanna play this?" Joe hated loosing, but he hated being lied to even more. A helluva lot more. His shoulders came up and he poked a finger at Deke's chest. "I know it was you. You put a tracking device on my truck and you hired someone to follow me to River Heights. Yeah, that's right. My brother and I spotted him the first night, sitting in our back alley."

Deke's spine stiffened and he grasped Joe's intention. A fight. Payback for his girlfriend. This wasn't going down any other way. Deke didn't mind. A fight would probably relieve all the pent up tension charging through his body and setting his skin on fire.

He planted his feet shoulder width apart and crossed his muscular arms. "Get the hell off my property before I do something _you'll_ regret."

Joe stared at Deke for a long, hard moment. Joe wasn't leaving. Not yet. Not without information. " _I'll_ regret? You think you can take me on? You piece of .."

Joe's fist came up and Frank's voice halted it.

"Joe." There was a warning in Frank's tone. _Calm down, Joe_.

Like that was going to happen.

Joe stood there with his fist cocked and ready. He gave Deke another chance. "Give me the bastard's name. Tell me where he lives or how to find him. You tell me that, his name and how to find him, and I'll leave."

Deke squinted at Joe and shook his head in a disparaging manner. "You're one hard-headed son-of-a-bitch. You know that, Hardy?"

"The man tasered my woman," Joe snarled. "Smacked her around. You okay with that? With a man beating on a woman? Is that the kind of man you are?"

Deke looked away, seemed to give the comment some thought, and then swung his gaze back to Joe. "This conversation is over. Get the hell off my property, Hardy."

It all happened in a split-second. Joe saw the downward curl of Deke's lips and his arm going back, powering up for a right hook or drawing a weapon. Joe came off his back foot and drove his fist into Deke's face. There was a squirt of blood and Deke stumbled back on his heels.

Bulka whined and tugged on her leash. Frank held her back.

Deke put a hand to his bleeding nose and looked into Joe's eyes. "You know, I don't usually like getting my hands dirty. With you? I'll make an exception."

"Bring it on, Boxberger." Joe's fists were ready and itching to do some harm.

Deke took a step forward, feinted left and nailed Joe on the side of his head. Joe swayed and shook the starburst from his eyes. It felt like he'd stuck his head in front of a train.

Bulka growled and pulled on her leash. Frank calmed her with words Joe couldn't hear. His head was buzzing with white noise. He was only marginally aware of his surroundings.

Deke came at Joe again, feinting with his left. Joe was ready this time. He blocked the blow with his right forearm and drove his left fist into Deke's stomach. The blow hurt Deke, but it hurt Joe almost as much. Deke's stomach was hard as a tire.

Joe dodged to the left and Deke's fist shot past his ear. Joe stepped in close and torqued a left hook – full of power and fury – into the side of Deke's head. Joe imagined his fist passing through Deke's skull and out the opposite side.

Deke's head snapped over his shoulder and he took a step back. Went down on one knee. Braced himself on the ground with a hand. Joe held back. Things had happened in a testosterone infused rage. His adrenaline was spent and the world was gradually filtering back into his consciousness.

He heard Bulka barking and Frank yelling.

Before Joe could devote any attention to Bulka or his brother, Deke sprang off the ground, wielding a hunting knife. A big ass knife. The four-inch blade glinted in the late afternoon sun.

Bulka went ballistic. She lunged at the man, dragging Frank with her. Frank dug in his heels and shouted at Joe. Bulka was beyond Frank's control and about to rip the leash out of his hands.

Joe threw his hands up. One in front of Bulka and one in front of Deke. "Enough! Stop!"

Bulka froze in place, snarling and growling, showing her teeth.

Deke aimed the knife at Bulka. "That dog bites me, I'll kill it."

Joe believed him. Joe locked eyes with Bulka and swung his arm toward the ground. "Down, girl! Down!"

Bulka reluctantly melted onto the ground, whining and complaining the whole way down.

"I think we're done here," Deke said. Blood trickled from one nostril and his eyes were wild. "You have five seconds to get off my property or I'm calling the police. I might call them anyway."

Frank had the back of his SUV open before Deke finished his sentence. "Joe, let's go. Get the dog."

Joe signaled Bulka and she rose, trotted to Frank, and jumped in the vehicle. Joe nodded at Deke and backed away, his hands up. No more fighting. Leaving peacefully.

Joe got in the SUV and Frank backed the vehicle out of the driveway before Joe had his door closed.

Joe buckled his seatbelt and looked at his brother. "You mad?"

Frank didn't answer, just gave Joe a look. _I warned you this was going to happen. Told you it wasn't going to end well._

Fair enough, Joe thought and turned to gaze out the window. He had insisted on the visit. Frank had argued against it, tried to reason with Joe. Joe wouldn't listen. Didn't want to. Sure, he knew things might get volatile between him and Deke and they had. He had wanted that. So, in that sense, he got what he wanted.

His head throbbed and his hand ached. He lifted his hand and felt the knot forming on the side of his head. It was tender and swollen and Joe had nothing to show for his pain. He still had no idea who the man was that had attacked Vanessa. What had he gained by visiting Deke? Nothing. The visit was a complete waste of time. Deke probably got more out of the visit than Joe did. If Deke hadn't known about the attack, well, now he did.

* * *

 _A/N: Hi, everyone. There seems to be a glitch here at Fanfiction. Usually, when I post a chapter, I receive your reviews via my email. After the first couple of reviews on the last chapter, I quit receiving reviews. I came here, to the site, and saw I had more reviews and read them, so that's good. I responded to everyone that has an account. If you didn't receive my reply, then the system here is not working. Anyway, I thank everyone again for taking the time to leave a review. :)_


	34. Chapter 34

Chapter 34

Frank drove into the grocery store parking lot, found a slot, and parked his vehicle. He had not spoken to Joe during the drive from Deke's house to the store. Frank turned the engine off, looked at his brother, and said, "I'll go in and get the stuff for dinner. You stay here with Bulka. I think she could use some reassurance from you that everything's okay."

Joe stared at his painful hand and nodded. "You're right." He looked out his window and saw a grassy area. "I'll take her for a walk. Let her work off some of the craziness."

"Good idea." Frank grinned. "And by the way, I'm not mad at you."

Joe eyed his brother skeptically. "Really? Seemed to me like you were mad back when we were leaving Deke's."

Frank's grin widened to a genuine smile. "Sometimes, I like to give you a little hell. Do the, _I told you so_ , routine."

"Right." Joe smirked, not completely happy with Frank's answer. "Tell me, what would you have done if it was Nancy who'd been abducted and tasered?"

Frank's face hardened and a heat came into his eyes. "I would've done the same as you. Gone after Deke. See what he had to say for himself. There's only one thing I would've done differently."

Joe cocked his head and lifted one blond brow. "Yeah? What's that?"

"When I left, he would have been missing some teeth." Frank grinned, but Joe saw that his brother was deadly serious.

Joe defended his actions. "Yeah, well, Bulka was getting too excited. I needed to get her out of there."

"True," Frank agreed, visibly relaxing. "You did the right thing. It was definitely time for us to leave."

Bulka whined and made dog noises that seemed to say, _what's going on, guys? Are we going to sit, here, in the vehicle the rest of the day?_

Joe looked over his shoulder at Bulka's carrier and then at his brother. "Someone's getting restless. I better let her out."

# # # #

Frank headed to the store and Joe walked Bulka to the grassy area. He had her on a short leash just in case other people wandered by. The grassy area was a beautiful little spot with tall, deciduous trees ablaze with autumn colors. Brilliant reds and vibrant oranges. The trees hide the nearby street and traffic. Not that there was a lot of traffic. Not in Healy. Joe found the little grassy area to be a welcome respite in a peaceful town. Well, if one forgot about the murders.

How many murders were they up to now? Dan Sagget, Dolores Gage, and six hobos. That brought the count to eight. Oh, and don't forget Mrs. Linda Nicholson murdered seven years ago. Her murder was still unsolved.

Joe circled round and sat on a wooden bench. Bulka's leash was in his hand. He gave her more lead and looked at the store, then at Frank's SUV. No sign of Frank yet, he was still shopping.

Joe sat in the sunshine and contemplated his life. Tragedies seemed to plague him. Iola, his first girlfriend, had died in a car bomb when she was nineteen. Way too young to die and, worse, the car bomb had been meant for him. Tons of guilt associated with that death and it had taken Joe years to come to terms with it. If indeed he had. Ten years later, Vanessa entered his life. He found love again. A true, deep, abiding love. He opened his heart to Vanessa completely, told her his innermost fears and thoughts. She accepted him warts and all.

And now? Now, Vanessa had been put in danger because of him just like Iola before her. Joe knew his job put the ones he loved at risk. It wasn't fair. Neither woman had been involved in the cases he was working. They were collateral damage.

Bulka came up and laid her head on his knee. He stroked her fur and peered into her caramel colored eyes. He saw the unquestioning trust she granted him. Her life and safety were in his hands just as Iola's had been and as Vanessa's was now.

Unquestioning trust.

Joe shook his head woefully. "I failed them both," he told the dog, his voice barely a whisper. "Somehow, I always wind up hurting the women I love. Even you. I left you in a war zone. I know that, realistically, it's not my fault. There was nothing I could do, but, well, it still happened on my watch and I still feel partly responsible." He let out a heavy sigh. "There is one good thing in all of this. Wayne adopted you. You deserve a good life with someone who loves you. We _all_ deserve that."

Joe thought of the last few days and how he'd spent them with Bulka. Out hunting and investigating. "I've put you in danger, girl, and I need to stop doing that. Deke could have killed you today and if he had, it would have been all my fault."

Joe saw Frank exit the store with grocery bags in each hand and patted Bulka's head. "C'mon, girl. Time to go home."

# # # #

Joe opened the sliding glass door and let Bulka into the backyard. She made a beeline for her water dish. Joe left the door open so Bulka could come in later after she finished her patrol of the yard.

Joe headed to the kitchen to help Frank unload the groceries.

Frank pulled something out a bag on the kitchen counter and smiled at his brother. "I got Bulka a chew bone. We can give it to her when we eat. It should keep her busy so we can enjoy dinner with the girls."

Joe returned the smile. "After all the excitement she's had today, I think she'll appreciate a quiet evening curled up with a chew bone."

Frank glanced at his watch. "The girls should be here soon."

Joe's phone rang and he looked at the caller. "It's Vanessa."

Vanessa informed Joe that she and Nancy were less than an hour away. Forty minutes at the most. Joe informed Vanessa that he and Frank were starting dinner and couldn't wait to see their fiancées.

As Joe ended his phone conversation, Frank's phone rang. Frank answered and was greeted by the crisp, professional voice of Monica LaMarca.

"I'd like to stop by and see you and your brother" she said. "I have some information I'd like to share. I promise not to take up too much of your time."

"No problem," Frank said. "My brother and I are just starting dinner. You're welcome to join us."

"That's very kind of you, but I don't want to impose upon you and your brother."

"Please, it's no imposition. You're representing our client. Dinner is the least we can offer as a way to thank you. And you won't be the lone woman, our fiancées are joining us, too. They'll be here soon."

"Oh, isn't your fiancée, Carson Drew's daughter, Nancy?"

"Yes, she is," Frank confirmed.

"I've met her," Monica said. "She stops by her father's office frequently. I'd love to see her again. So, on second thought, I will take you up on your offer of dinner. It certainly beats fast food or sitting alone in a restaurant. What can I bring?"

"Just yourself," Frank said.

Monica chuckled. "I could never show up empty handed. What type of wine does Nancy like?"

Frank told Monica the type of wine and hung up. He looked at Joe and said, "I'm sure you heard. Monica LaMarca is joining us for dinner. She has information she wants to share with us."

Joe opened the refrigerator. "Sounds interesting." He put a carton of eggs in the refrigerator and closed the door. "I wonder if it's about Wayne's test today. I'd like to know what the psychologist has to say about Wayne's mental health."

Frank took a rotisserie chicken out of a grocery bag. "Me, too."

The brothers finished unloading the groceries. Frank put the rotisserie chicken in the oven on low to keep it warm until the rest of the dinner was ready. He made buttered potatoes and green beans while Joe feed Bulka and then made a salad. Frank was taking the chicken out of the oven when the brothers heard a car horn honk twice outside.

Nancy and Vanessa had arrived.

The brothers gave their fiancées a warm greeting on the driveway. Hugs and ardent kisses were exchanged. Joe was gentle with Vanessa, very aware of her bruised ribs and swollen knees and elbows. The sun was setting. They stood in semi-darkness, so Joe couldn't get a clear look at Vanessa's face. He imagined a couple of ugly bruises lurking there.

Frank and Joe took the women's suitcases from the trunk of Nancy's car. The women carried their handbags and jackets and everyone headed for the front door. Bulka watched from the living room window, her paws on the window sill, her wet nose pressed against the glass. _Who were these new people?_

# # # #

Predator thanked the old man for the ride, opened door of the truck, and hopped out. He reached back in, grabbed his backpack off the floor, said thanks to the old man again, and slammed the door shut. The old man pulled away slowly and turned onto a country road. Predator watched the truck rattled down the dirt road, its' headlights cutting through the gathering darkness.

Predator zipped up his jacket and pulled a knit cap on his head. He hefted his backpack and shrugged it onto one broad shoulder. Then he set off, walking the highway, heading to Healy. Back to where this adventure had started. Back to Deke Boxberger.

Predator figured he was an hour outside of the city limits of River Heights. That meant he was approximately two and a half hours from Healy. Still a long way to go, but Predator had all the time in the world to get there. As far as the Predator knew, Boxberger wasn't going anywhere in the near future. Boxberger had a job and a home in Healy. He would be in Healy when the Predator arrived, be it tonight or tomorrow. The Predator knew where Boxberger worked _and_ lived. All the important information. All the information he needed to find Boxberger.

Predator wasn't worried about the police. Not yet. He had easily eluded them. Child's play for a former Marine trained in escape and evasion. After twenty miles of high speed driving, he'd ditched the rental car. Drove it right down into a tree lined ditch. Then he'd changed his appearance, wiped the blood off his face with the new t-shirt he'd been wearing and then wadded it up, and tossed it in the bushes. An old faded t-shirt took its place. On top of the t-shirt went an old, surplus Army jacket. Then he'd mussed up his hair and rubbed dirt on his face. He'd come out of the ditch looking like a homeless veteran down on his luck. Part of that was true. He was a homeless veteran, but his luck hadn't failed him completely.

After ditching the car, Predator had worked his way across farm fields and dirt roads until he spotted a truck traveling down the road. It was heading toward town, to River Heights. Predator had stuck out his thumb and hoped for the best. The old man – a veteran, himself – had stopped and offered a ride. He was going to the next town over to see his sister. Predator had smiled politely and jumped into the truck. The past hour had been spent listening to the old man's stories.

Now, Predator was out in the cold, walking the lonely highway.

Headlights glowed behind him. He stepped off the highway and stuck out a thumb. He might get lucky again.

# # # #

Monica LaMarca arrived shortly after Nancy and Vanessa had settled their suitcases in the bedrooms. Frank opened the front door and ushered Monica in. She held up a bottle of wine. Nancy's favorite. Nancy walked into the living room, saw Monica, and the two women lit up.

Nancy rushed up to Monica and gave her a warm embrace. "You're still here, in Healy. My father said he'd sent you here to represent Wayne Banyan. How's his defense going?"

Monica placed the bottle of wine in Frank's outstretched hand and said, "I'll tell everyone at dinner. First, I have some news for Bulka. Where is she?"

# # # #

Bulka was in Joe's bedroom eyeing the new suitcase. It lay on the bed in the spot where her blanket had once been. The blanket was now on her doggie bed in the corner. Hmm, things had changed with the new arrivals. Bulka put her front paws on the bed, stretched her nose toward the suitcase and sniffed. The fragrance of a flower garden filled Bulka's nose. Very different from Joe's musky scent. Bulka was puzzling over these differences when she heard her name. She went to the bedroom door and stuck her head out.

Monica beckoned to her. "Come here, girl. Come here."

Bulka trotted across the living room and up to Monica. The last time the dark haired woman was here she had brought dog biscuits. Maybe she had more.

Monica bent at the waist and petted the dog. "Bulka, I have a wonderful surprise for you. Tomorrow, you are going to see your master." Monica smiled broadly at the dog as if she understood. Unfortunately, Bulka did not. "I had a long discussion with the Police Chief this afternoon and managed to get him to agree to the visit. You, and only you, will see Mr. Banyan tomorrow morning at ten o'clock."

Bulka sniffed Monica's face and hands. Those dog biscuits could be hidden anywhere on the woman. Bulka just had to find them.

# # # #

Joe couldn't believe it. Monica had, somehow, arranged a visit between Bulka and Wayne. "That's great," he said. He knew how important it was for Bulka to see Wayne. She needed to know her master was still alive and had not abandoned her. Joe felt the visit would be equally therapeutic for Wayne.

Bulka was still sniffing Monica. Her wet nose tickled. Monica laughed and pushed to her feet. She saw the inquiring expressions on the others' faces and explained, "The psychologist said it would be extremely beneficial for Mr. Banyan if he could see his dog and know that she's okay. The psychologist made it sound as if it were a matter of life and death. It took me a while to convince the Police Chief of that but, finally, he came around and gave in to my request."

"I think that's wonderful," Joe said. He felt Wayne could not have asked for a better lawyer.

Bulka sat in front of Monica and whined. Her tail swished and she gave a sharp bark directed at Monica. Bulka was confused and a little upset. _No dog biscuits!_

Monica put her hands on her chest and looked down at the dog. "Oh my, what's the matter, girl?"

"I think," Joe said, "she was expecting a treat."

Monica's eyes widened with realization. "Oh, that's right, last time I was here I brought dog biscuits." She looked down at the dog again and held out her empty hands. "I'm so sorry, Bulka. I didn't bring any this time."

Frank came out of the kitchen pulling the wrapper off of the chew bone. "Don't worry, Monica. I've got this covered. I bought her a treat today." He held out the bone to Bulka. "Here you go, girl."

Bulka barked her thanks, took the bone in her mouth, trotted around the sofa, and into Joe's bedroom.

Frank balled up the wrapper and winked at Monica. "It was part of my devious plan to keep her busy while we ate. Dinner's almost ready. Joe, I'll carve the chicken if you'll open the wine."

"I'm on it." Joe followed Frank into the kitchen.

Joe did a quick visual check of Vanessa as he left the room to get a corkscrew. Vanessa was a little pale and a little subdued. Definitely not her usual cheerful, outgoing self. Joe didn't like the swelling on her forehead. It spoke of the violence she had suffered. The violence he had not been able to prevent. The violence that lay at his doorstep. All his fault.

Her elbows were fine, she'd said. It was her knees and ribs that were sore and tender. Joe had not missed her slow and careful walk up the porch steps. Anger had tightened his stomach, but he'd held the anger in check for Vanessa's sake. She needed rest and quiet tonight. Love and affection. He planned on showing her tons of both.

Nancy, Vanessa, and Monica took seats on the sofa and chair in the living room. Nancy introduced Vanessa to Monica. Monica had heard about Vanessa's abduction when she'd phoned Carson Drew's office that afternoon. Monica phoned the lawyer's office every afternoon with an update on Mr. Banyan's case.

Monica laid a comforting hand on Vanessa's arm. "I'm so sorry to hear about what happened to you. I hope the police catch the man responsible. I heard you got a good look at him."

"I did," Vanessa said. "But he seems to have vanished."

Nancy leaned forward and added, "The detective assigned to the case called Vanessa just as we were entering Healy. Detective Ortiz said a rental car and a t-shirt were found in a ditch on the side of the road about twenty-five miles from where I encountered Vanessa and the man."

Joe reappeared. He didn't like the direction this conversation had taken. The abduction was still fresh in Vanessa's mind and now she was being forced to talk about it. That had to be stressful for her.

"Dinner's ready," he said and motioned toward the kitchen-slash-dining room. Monica and Nancy rose off the sofa and made their way to the food.

"It smells delicious," Monica said as she and Nancy disappeared into the dining room.

Joe put a hand under Vanessa's elbow and helped her off of the chair. He wanted a moment alone with her to gauge how she was feeling and her state of mind.

"Thank you," she whispered in his ear, grateful for his help. Her knees were screaming.

"I love you," he whispered back and kissed her on the cheek. "Are you okay? I know talking about what happened to you today probably isn't your favorite topic of conversation."

"I'm fine," she assured him. "Nancy says it's good to talk about the event. That it desensitizes me to it. It helps me get over the trauma faster."

The crease in Joe's forehead deepened, adding tension to his features. "That's true, but it doesn't necessarily mean it's the right thing to do so soon after the event. You should do what feels right for you."

Vanessa looked up, into Joe's sky blue eyes. "I know you're worried about me, babe. I was worried about me, but I'm coming to grips with what happened and it feels good to talk about it. It .. it _does_ help. It kind of gets the bad stuff out of my head. Does that make sense?"

He kissed the corner of her mouth. "In a weird way it does. I just don't want you pushed into talking about something you're not ready to talk about."

"I know." She took his hands in hers. "But I've had to talk about it with the police, with the doctor, with Aunt Muriel and Uncle Henry and Nancy. All I've done today _is_ talk about it." The angles of her face softened and she brushed her lips against his. "Thank you, though, for being so loving and understanding."

"You're my life, Vanessa." There was so much more he wanted to say, to tell her how all of this was his fault. But it could wait until they were alone. Until they were in bed and Vanessa was snuggled in his arms.

# # # #

As soon as dinner was done, Vanessa excused herself. She was tired and in need of a long, hot bath, she said. Everyone understood. Joe wanted to go with her to help get the bath ready, but Vanessa told him to stay. Monica LaMarca had more information to share, information Vanessa did not wish to hear. She had heard enough during dinner. Something about murdered hobos.

She walked to the bedroom. Bulka was on her doggie bed, chewing her bone. She looked up when Vanessa entered the room. Vanessa opened her suitcase and fished out her pajamas. Bulka dropped her bone, hopped out of her bed, and came to investigate.

Vanessa smiled at the dog. "Curious about what's in my suitcase?"

Bulka was polite. She stayed on the carpeted floor and sniffed from afar.

Vanessa held out her hand so Bulka could smell it. "We're going to be roommates for a few days, Bulka. Are you okay with that?"

Bulka sniffed Vanessa's hand and licked it.

Vanessa smiled and ran her hand lightly over the dog's head. "I'll take that as a yes."

Vanessa turned to her suitcase and grabbed a bottle of bubble bath. Tomorrow, she would unpack everything, put her clothes in the chest of drawers and put her lotions, shampoo, and crème rinse in the bathroom. Tonight, fatigue had seeped in to every part of her body. Her legs felt heavy and her knees and ribs ached. Time for more pain meds. She grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen from the side pocket of her suitcase.

An interested Bulka followed Vanessa to the attached bathroom.

Joe came into the bedroom, scooped Vanessa's suitcase off the bed, and laid it on the floor next to Bulka's bed. There, the bed was ready for Vanessa when she finished her bath. Joe heard the water running in the bathroom.

Vanessa squirted bubble bath in the tub and put the bottle on the edge of the tub. Joe came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and pulled her close. He buried his nose in her hair and breathed in the floral scent.

"Have I told you how much I missed you?" he said into her hair.

"Yes, but you can keep telling me. I never get tired of hearing it." Vanessa turned in Joe's arms to face him. His essence enveloped her. His strength, compassion, and concern washed over her and through her. His touch, and his closeness, did a good job of making her forget the day and the awful event.

His mouth came down on hers and she lost herself in the moment. For such a strong man, his touch was deceptively light. The kiss was tender and stirring. Just what she needed.

When the kiss ended, he helped her undress and helped her into the tub. She appreciated his thoughtful attention.

"I'm going to let Bulka out in the backyard for a potty break and a game of fetch. I'll be back in twenty minutes to help you out of the tub."

"I think I can manage on my own, Joe." Vanessa smiled at Bulka who was sniffing the bubbles. The dog was a pleasant distraction.

"I'll be back to help you out of the tub," Joe said, firmly. "Let's play it safe tonight. No sense in you risking a slip or a fall, is there?"

Vanessa held out wet fingers and Bulka licked them. Vanessa smiled up at Joe. "You're right. I'll be right here in this tub when you and Bulka return."

"Good." Joe leaned down and kissed the top of Vanessa's head. "Okay, Bulka. Let's go work off some energy."

Joe and Bulka left the bathroom and Vanessa was alone for the first time since the attack. Still, she felt safe. Frank and Nancy were in the house, most likely in the kitchen, cleaning up the dinner dishes. On any other night, Vanessa would have been in there, too.

She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. It felt good to soak in the hot water. Her sore joints relaxed. The bubbles perfumed the air. In a small corner of her brain a question thrummed. Where was the man who had attacked her?

# # # #

Predator sat in the truck stop diner, nursing a mug of coffee. It was hot and black and made his throat tight when he sipped it. He was an hour and forty-five minutes from Healy. All he needed was a ride. A truck stop was normally a good place to find a ride. A good place during the daytime. It was after eight-thirty p.m. and the night was pitch black. No one would see Predator standing on the side of the road until they were past him. By which point, most would say, screw it, they weren't stopping. Not at night when they couldn't get a good look at the hitchhiker.

Predator hadn't complained when his previous ride had dropped him at the diner. The man was a truck driver and had said he used this truck stop on all his runs. The bathrooms were clean and Jolene, the waitress, took real, good care of him. Jolene had taken real, good care of Predator, too. She'd made sure he had a plentiful dinner, a piece of pie, and prompt service.

Predator sipped his coffee and thought about his options. The truck driver who'd brought him here was long gone. He had eaten and then climbed back into his truck's cab and headed north. Predator was heading west, so the two were forced to part ways.

Predator wondered if he should call it a night or try to get a ride. There were a few truck drivers left in the diner. Two were eating, three were nursing a coffee like him and texting on their phones. One, off in a corner, was reading a newspaper. Predator could tell by their body language that none of them were getting back on the road tonight. They were going to call it a night and bed down in their trucks. Predator counted at least ten trucks parked in the overnight lot.

Jolene came over to check on her customer. "You need anything else before I clock out? Another cup of coffee?"

"No, thanks. This is it for me."

Jolene laid Predator's bill on the table and picked up his empty pie plate and fork. "I'll be the cashier when you're ready to pay."

Predator watched Jolene take the dish and fork to the kitchen. She was in her late thirties, willowy, and not unattractive. Her dark blonde hair was pulled back in a severe bun. If all that hair was down she'd be a lot prettier.

Predator dug through his wallet and found a twenty dollar bill. He grabbed his backpack off a neighboring chair, slung it over a shoulder, and headed to the cash register, the twenty and his bill in his hand. Jolene met him at the counter with a smile.

As she rang up his meal and made change for the twenty, Predator thought about his options. All he really needed was a car. He smiled at Jolene as she handed him his change. Jolene probably had a car. How else did she get to work?

"Hey," he said, "are there any motels around here?"

"Yeah, there's a Motel Six 'bout ten miles that way." Jolene pointed out the window in a direction Predator did not want to go. The motel was east and he wanted to go west. "That's all we got around here," Jolene said, seeming almost ashamed that her little town only had one motel. "After us, the next motel is eighty-five miles away in Healy. They don't have much either. Healy's not much bigger than we are."

Predator stroked his chin. "Hmm, guess I'll have to walk then. Ten miles you said? Not far. Not for a combat vet. I've humped my way all over Afghanistan for the last two years, guess I can keep humping over here. Nice here, too. Over there it was hot as hell. Here, I'll be cool." He looked out the window, at the black night. "It's a nice night for walking."

He waited a beat, wondering if Jolene would offer him a ride. She had said she was getting ready to clock out. Her shift was over soon. He saw her thinking it over as she tidied items around the cash register. He had played up the combat vet scenario in the hopes she would feel safe about offering him a ride. It didn't seem to be working.

He turned to leave and she said, "Yeah, you just walk up to the road there," she nodded at the window, "and make a right. Then you follow the road, that's Houghton Road. It'll take you straight to the motel."

"Thanks." Predator smiled, but there was no warmth in his smile or his eyes.

He left the diner, walked to the road as she had instructed, and turned right. Had to do everything she said in case she was watching. Once he was out of view, he doubled back to the diner and crept though the dimly lit parking lot. He dropped his pack on the ground, hunkered down behind a car, and waited. His focus was like a laser beam on the back door. It was almost nine o'clock. Jolene should be exiting any minute.

What she did not give willingly, he would take unwillingly.

* * *

 _A/N: Sorry about the delay in updating. I've been busy getting ready for Thanksgiving, but I wanted to post the next chapter before the mad rush of Thursday._

 _As always, I thank each and every one of you who has left a review. I still don't get notified of the reviews or PMs and I just have to say that it's getting frustrating. :( Hopefully, the powers that be are working on the problem. One can hope._

 _Take care everyone and Happy Thanksgiving!_


	35. Chapter 35

Chapter 35

Jolene lay on her side in a dark place. She moved her head and winced. Her entire body ached. Her nerve endings were on fire and hypersensitive. She searched her memory, trying to figure out what had happened to her. The last thing she remembered was standing by her car, the key fob in her hand, and then? Intense, searing pain. A pain that had burned through her and ripped the air from her lungs before she blacked out.

And now? Now, she was in a blackness so complete she could not see a thing. But she could hear. She heard the humming of the road passing beneath her and knew she was curled in the trunk of a car. Her own car?

She moved her legs and realized her ankles were bound. Her hands, too. They were bound behind her back and a cloth was stuffed in her mouth. Panic and fear set in and Jolene's heart pounded.

Dear God, what had happened to her?

 _Attacked!_

The word came quickly and she was certain she knew who had attacked her. The man in the diner. The one who'd asked about a motel. There had been something off about him, something that told Jolene to beware. She had watched him through the diner's window and waited until he was out of sight, heading along the road in the direction of the motel. She had breathed a sigh of relief, thinking he really was going to the motel. Oh, a small doubt had remained and that had caused her to stay in the diner an extra fifteen minutes slowly gathering her things and saying goodnight to the kitchen staff.

Finally, she'd left through the back door and stepped into the cold, dark night bundled in her winter jacket. She was still in it and thankful for that. The jacket provided a measure of warmth and comfort. Two things she needed at the moment.

Her mind turned to her situation. What did the man want? To rape her? If he raped her, he would surely kill her afterwards.

Jolene squeezed her eyes shut to block the tears. It didn't completely work. A solitary tear ran down her cold cheek. She felt her situation was hopeless, that she was destined to die on a deserted road. Another tear slid down her face. She lived alone. No one would miss her until tomorrow afternoon when she didn't show up for work at the diner. Where would she be then? She dared not even think of the possibilities.

# # # #

Predator guided the car down the highway, the headlights cutting a path through the night. Predator thought about the woman in the trunk. There was value in keeping her, at least for a short while. He'd found money and a debit card in her purse. The money was already in his jacket pocket. The debit card required assistance from the woman. He needed her PIN number in order to use it. Predator was confident he could convince her to give him the number.

He grinned. Oh, yes, he was quite certain she would give it to him. The stun gun. He'd used it on her in the parking lot at the diner. The gun had been set on high. He'd learned his lesson with the blonde. With her, the gun had been set on low. He'd read somewhere that you could kill a person at the highest setting. He hadn't wanted that to happen, not before he'd had a chance to enjoy the blonde's company. So, he'd erred on the side of caution with her and had received an unexpected benefit. When the blonde managed to turn the gun on him, the gun's effects had been minimal and he'd recovered quickly. That had allowed him the chance to escape.

Sometimes, you got lucky.

Jolene, unfortunately, had not been so lucky. When Predator stunned her, she'd collapsed like a wet dishrag. At first, he thought he'd killed her. Not that he was worried about killing her. She was more a means to an end. Still, he'd checked her pulse and breathing before stuffing her in the trunk.

She was there now. Bound and gagged. Probably panicking. All good. It would make her more pliable, more willing to do what he asked.

Predator checked the fuel gauge and the clock on the dashboard. The tank was getting low. He would use Jolene's money to top off the tank. The time was eleven p.m. That meant he'd be in Healy by one in the morning. Maybe later. That gave him plenty of time to find an ATM, use Jolene's debit card, and withdraw cash. After that, Jolene's usefulness would be over.

# # # #

Vanessa and Joe lay in bed, spooning. He kissed her hair and whispered, "I'm glad my two favorite girls like each other."

Vanessa smiled contentedly. She was nestled between Bulka and Joe. It was wondrous to be cocooned in warmth and love. Bulka had been cautious and gentle when she'd climbed on the bed. The dog seemed to understand that Vanessa was hurt. Vanessa swore the dog was keeping a watchful eye on her. Joe agreed. He said Bulka had done the same thing in the Army. When a soldier was hurt, Bulka had tended to stick close to him as though guarding him from any further harm.

That thought, the thought of Bulka protecting her, carried Vanessa into a deep sleep.

Eight o'clock, Thursday morning, Vanessa awoke to find Joe and Bulka gone. Their absence made a huge change in the room. It felt empty and lonely.

Vanessa smelled coffee brewing. Someone was up and in the kitchen. Good, she was hungry. She hadn't eaten much last night. She'd been too wound up, too emotionally exhausted, but this morning she planned on making up for the lack of food.

She brushed her long blonde hair into a ponytail, pulled on jeans, a comfy shirt, and headed for the kitchen, semi-limping. Her knees were stiff this morning and her ribs ached, but she suspected the aches and pains would fade as the day wore on. The swelling in her knees was gone and, overall, she felt ten times better this morning than she had last night. She was more alive and aware of the world. Yesterday, she had shrunk in on herself, withdrawn from the world and locked down her emotions. The world was a cruel and wicked place and avoiding it had seemed a good strategy. Today, that feeling had subsided.

Vanessa's fear was gone. Well, mostly gone. A reasonable amount of fear would linger until her attacker was apprehended. The thought of him was like ice water down her back. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. Where was the man and what he was doing? Best not to dwell on him, she told herself.

"Good morning." Nancy greeted her with a smile and handed her a cup of coffee. "You look cold. This should warm you up. I just poured it."

Vanessa took the cup gingerly. "Thanks. You two are up early."

Frank was at the stove, making omelets. He nodded a greeting and said, "Cheese and ham omelets are on the menu. Want one?"

"I'd kill for one." Vanessa chuckled and looked around the kitchen. "Where's Joe and Bulka?"

"In the backyard," Nancy said and poured herself a cup of coffee. "Have a seat at the table. Frank and I have breakfast under control." A sidelong glance and a half-grin from Frank made Nancy add, "Well, Frank has it under control. I've played sous chef. I was in charge of chopping up the ham, onions, and cheese."

Frank smiled at Nancy. "And you did a wonderful job. You make a great sous chef." He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. Then he lifted the skillet and, with a flick of his wrist, flipped the omelet.

Nancy's eyes grew wide and bright. "Your culinary skills never cease to amaze me, Frank Hardy."

Frank grinned at the compliment.

Vanessa eased into a chair at the table and sipped her coffee. It was hot and strong. She heard Joe and Bulka come in through the sliding glass doors.

Dog and man passed into the living room. Joe stopped, stripped off his jacket and sweatshirt, and tossed them on the living room sofa. That left him in a long sleeve cotton shirt and jeans. He rubbed his hands together as he entered the kitchen-slash-dining room. "Cold out there today," he informed the others and headed straight for the coffeemaker.

Bulka, tail wagging, padded up to Vanessa and licked her hand. Vanessa stroked the dog's head. "Good morning to you, too, Bulka. Did you have a nice time with Joe?"

Joe came over to the table, coffee in hand, and sat next to Vanessa. Bulka stood between them, glancing back and forth. Joe ruffled the fur on Bulka's neck and shoulders. "She had a great time. We played a few games of fetch." He looked over at his Frank at the stove. "Her stick's history, bro. Just bits and pieces now."

Frank laughed and spoke over his shoulder, "I'm surprised it lasted this long."

Joe turned to Vanessa and kissed her lightly on the lips. "How are you feeling this morning? Still sore?"

"A little," she admitted, "but much better than yesterday. The swelling in my knees is gone."

"Good, happy to hear it. You still need to take it easy today." His hand reached for hers.

"I know," she said. His hand found hers and their fingers entwined.

"Breakfast is served," Nancy announced, carrying plates of steaming omelets to the table. She set them in front of Vanessa and Joe who offered up their hearty thanks.

Frank removed biscuits from the oven, slid them on a plate, and brought them to the table. Nancy set two more plates of omelets on the table. One for herself and one for Frank.

Over breakfast, the group discussed the agenda for the day. Joe reminded everyone that Bulka had a ten o'clock appointment at the Police Station to see Wayne. Joe planned to leave by nine-thirty. Monica LaMarca was meeting him and Bulka at the Station.

Joe sucked in a breath and cast a wary glance at his brother. "Um, Frank, can I borrow your vehicle?"

Frank forked omelet into his mouth and chewed. Peripherally, he eyed his brother. He swallowed and said, "I'm not sure why you're asking to borrow the SUV. I can drive you and Bulka to the station."

Joe swallowed some coffee. "I'd rather you stayed here, Frank. I don't like the idea of leaving the girls alone, not after my run in with Boxberger yesterday. I don't think he's too happy with me."

"No, I doubt he is." Frank ate more of his omelet.

Vanessa's phone pinged in the bedroom. She excused herself, saying, "It's probably Aunt Muriel checking up on me."

Joe nodded at Vanessa as she left then turned back to Frank. "I know how you are about your vehicle, bro. No one's allowed to drive it except you." He saw Nancy's discreet smile as she bit into a biscuit. See, even she thought Frank was too protective of his vehicle. "If you're dead set against me driving your vehicle then _you_ can take Bulka to the station and _I'll_ stay here with the girls."

Frank dabbed his mouth with a napkin. "No, you can take the SUV. Wayne's your client and you might get a chance to talk to him. It's best if you go and, for the record, I agree with you, one of us should stay with the girls." He smiled at Nancy. "Which I am more than happy to do."

Joe sat back in his chair, stunned. "I'm speechless. Just like that, you're going to let me drive your vehicle. I don't even have to fight you about it?"

Frank sipped his coffee and grinned. "If you bring it back with so much as one .."

Joe held his hands up. "I know, I know. I'll never hear the end of it."

"Ever!" Nancy giggled and her eyes twinkled with mischief.

Frank shot her a look, _I'm not like that!_

Nancy continued to smile as she finished her biscuit. _Oh, yes you are_.

Vanessa rejoined the group. She laid her phone on the table and sank like a heavy weight into her chair. "That was Detective Ortiz in River Heights."

Joe didn't like the frown creasing Vanessa's forehead. "What'd he have to say?"

Vanessa ran a hand over her troubled brow. "The man who attacked me has escaped, vanished into thin air. The police have tracked down the only lead they had, the car he drove into a ditch. Ortiz traced the car to a rental company, hoping to get the man's name. No such luck, he used a fake ID." Vanessa looked at the others and her gaze grew sharper. "It kills me to know he's still out there. He could be stalking another woman right now."

Nancy, ever the realist, said, "He could be, but based on his connection to Kyle Nicholson and Deke Boxberger, I think it's more likely he's looking for Joe or, and I hate to say this, _you_. He attacked you in the hopes of making Joe back off his investigation of Nicholson and the docks."

Vanessa had paled, but her spirit was strong. "You may be right, Nancy, but I don't think he abducted me just to get Joe to stop his investigation. I really don't." She looked at each person seated at the table. "I saw his eyes. He's evil. He's a sexual predator. Control and domination are important to him. He told me if I didn't obey him he would hurt me. He .. he hit me to prove it."

Anger shot through Joe like a bolt of lightning. He would tear the man apart when he found him. Now though, he held his anger in check. Vanessa needed him. She needed his calm and support, not his anger. His arm went around her shoulders and he drew her close. She was trembling. It pained him to see her relive her nightmare.

"It's okay, babe. We believe you and that's why when I go to the Police Station this morning, Frank is staying here with you and Nancy. I would stay, but there's a chance I might see Wayne. I don't want to miss that opportunity."

Vanessa nodded and Joe released his grip on her. "I understand, Joe. You have to do your job and I will feel safer with Frank here. With Nancy and Frank both on watch, I'll have no fears." Vanessa attempted a smile. It didn't quite reach her pale blue eyes.

Nancy, who's mind was never at rest when there was a case to be solved, said, "This man – this stalker – we need an angle on him, a way to find out who he is."

Joe leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "I'm positive Boxberger hired him to spy on me. Boxberger knows his name. I paid Boxberger a visit yesterday. I told him what had happened to Vanessa. I tried to convince him it was in his best interest to give me the guy's name. Unfortunately, Boxberger didn't see things the way I did."

Nancy processed the information. She suspected there was more to the story, but felt Joe had shared the salient points. "Okay, let's look at this logically then. Boxberger works for Nicholson and Nicholson is currently under investigation for the bodies found on his property. Nicholson and Boxberger probably blame you and Frank for their current troubles."

"I'm sure they do," Frank said. "They don't know for a fact that Joe and I alerted the police to the bodies, but they are fairly certain we did. They have us on video in the snake house on Sunday night. Monday morning Boxberger warned us to stay away. I don't think he had any serious expectations that we would. He and Nicholson have to assume that Joe and I went back to the snake house to check it out and stumbled upon the bodies."

"Who killed those hobos?" It was Vanessa, her voice was shaky.

Joe took her hand in his.

Frank said, "Good question. My guess would be Colonel Charles. All of the hobos were strangled except for Tommy Sims. He was _stabbed_ and strangled. Strangulation is a personal crime. Those men were with someone they knew and trusted when they were killed."

"Except Sims," Joe growled. "He didn't trust the Colonel, not by that point."

Frank's expression soured. "You're right, he didn't. I believe the Colonel stabbed him intending to kill him. Guess it didn't work and he had to strangle him in the end. Monica told us last night that there were defensive wounds on Sims, so we know he and the Colonel fought."

Confusion showed in Vanessa's furrowed brow. "Why would this Colonel person want to kill those men?"

"They knew too much," Frank said over the rim of his coffee cup. "Joe and I believe those hobos were hired to do odd jobs on the docks."

"Jobs that Nicholson didn't want his regular employees doing," Joe clarified. "Off the books sort of jobs."

"Illegal jobs?" Nancy said, an eyebrow rising.

"Yes." Frank set his cup on the table. "Joe and I had originally planned to do nightly surveillances of the docks. We'd hoped to catch Nicholson and Boxberger receiving illegal goods or something along those lines. We only managed one night of surveillance, Monday night, before we got sidetracked by other things. First, there was the attack on Connie Marshall and then Tommy Sims went missing. We decided to revisit the shipping container graveyard again, hoping that Sims had returned."

"He hadn't," Joe said, "but the visit was useful. In a roundabout way it led to us to the bodies."

Nancy rose and laid a hand on Frank's shoulder. "You two have been very busy. I'm getting another cup of coffee. Anyone else want a second cup?"

Vanessa turned down the offer of more coffee. She sat quietly thinking, mulling over the new information.

Joe put a hand on her knee. "You okay, babe? You're real quiet."

Vanessa looked into the inquiring eyes of her companions. "I'm fine. I'm just trying to figure out how the murders of the hobos relates to the murders of that man and woman."

"You mean Dan Sagget and Dolores Gage," Joe said.

"Yes." Vanessa frowned at Joe. "You said they were killed with an ax. Violently." Internally, she grimaced. "You said it was a crime of passion."

Joe picked up his coffee. "All true. Those murders were personal."

Vanessa tilted her head and stared at Joe. "The murders of the hobos weren't personal?"

Joe sipped his coffee and considered the question. "They were personal in the sense that the Colonel knew the men and they trusted him. From what I gather from talking to some of the hobos, the Colonel is, or was, respected. The hobos looked up to him and he helped some of them get jobs at the docks. That probably made him look like a hero. Frank and I know the Colonel's been working with Boxberger. He admitted as much to us. We're not sure of all the activities those two have going on, but illegal jobs and murders-for-hire for two possibilities."

Vanessa drew back in alarm. "Murders-for-hire?"

Joe nodded.

"Wait," Vanessa said, "does that mean you think the Colonel killed Dan and Dolores?"

Joe shrugged. "I .. mmm, at this point, I don't know."

Frank put his forearms on the table and leaned forward. "If we're right about the Colonel, and he did kill the hobos, that shows he has no compulsion against killing. I can see a scenario where Boxberger paid him to kill Dan and Dolores for Nicholson. Nicholson's the one who wanted Dan and Dolores dead."

Joe frowned and shook his head. "I'm not one hundred percent convinced that Nicholson wanted Dan and Dolores dead."

Frank studied his brother's face. "No?"

"No, those murders were vicious and brutal. There was rage and anger involved in those killings." Joe looked at Frank and realized he had never told Frank his theory regarding the murders. "I'm not saying Nicholson isn't capable of having someone killed in a vile and vicious manner, hell, I think he's more than capable of such a thing. And I can see Nicholson hating Dan Sagget. Sagget had an affair with his wife. That's enough to warrant a death sentence in Nicholson's book. A nasty death. So, yeah, Nicholson could've had Sagget killed, or better yet, killed him himself. But what's the motive for Dolores Gage's murder? She and Sagget were killed in the same manner and with the same brutality. Whoever killed them had a deep-seated hatred for both of them. Was that Nicholson?" Joe held his hands out and shrugged. "I'm not sure."

"Fair enough," Frank said. "And you're right, there is a distinct difference between the killings of Dan and Dolores and the hobos. Compared to Dan and Dolores, the hobo killings look peaceful. Except for Tommy Sims. The other hobos have few, if any, defensive wounds on them. It's almost as if they _let_ the Colonel kill them."

"It's weird," Joe agreed.

"More like creepy," Vanessa said, her face scrunching in disgust.

Nancy cleared her throat. "Ahem. Well, it seems we are right back to where this case started. We still have the same question, who killed Dan Sagget and Dolores Gage?"

Joe ran a hand down his face. He looked weary and none too happy. "Seems we are. Maybe I should go through my notes again. I interviewed a lot of people. Maybe someone said something I didn't catch back then." He glanced at his wristwatch. "Damn, can't go through them now. Bulka and me need to get going or we're going to be late. Can't have that."

Bulka, curled up between Vanessa and Joe's chairs, lifted her head when her name was mentioned. She looked at Joe with bright, inquiring eyes.

"Yep, we have to go," he told her. "You have a very special appointment. You're going to see your master."

Everyone pushed back their chairs and rose. Vanessa and Nancy cleared the table. Frank started dishwater in the sink. Joe headed for the bathroom to brush his teeth and Bulka followed on his heels. She knew something was up, something that involved her.

Joe came back into the kitchen a few minutes later, tugging on his jacket. "Frank, keys please."

Frank pulled his hands out of soapy dishwater, dried them, and grabbed the keys off a hook on the wall. He tossed them to Joe. "Drive safely, please."

Joe snagged the keys in mid-air. "Always do."

Frank rolled his eyes and plunged his hands into soapy water.

Joe wrapped Vanessa in a bear hug and kissed her passionately. "Sorry, I have to leave, babe. I should be home in a couple of hours."

"I'll miss you." Vanessa fingered the collar of Joe's jacket. "I have a favor to ask."

"Ask. Anything you want is yours." Joe smiled.

Vanessa returned the smile. "I was wondering if Nancy and I could go through your notes while you're at the station? Maybe one of us will spot something you…"

"Sure, of course. Three sets of eyes are better than one." Joe kissed Vanessa again to show he approved of the idea. Who knew, maybe she, or Nancy, would find something he'd missed.

Vanessa kissed him deeply. "Thanks."

She didn't tell him that reading through the notes and searching for clues, would make her feel like part of the team. She hated to admit it, but sometimes when the group discussed a case, she felt like the odd man out. She knew the feeling was entirely of her own making. The others had never belittled her comments or questions. Actually, based on the conversation this morning, they took her input seriously.

# # # #

Forty minutes later, Nancy and Vanessa were seated at the table. Joe's small notepad and his large, spiral bound notebook were open in front of them.

Nancy perused a page of the large notebook. Joe's handwriting was neat and legible. His notes and observations were thoughtful and thorough. Nancy was highly impressed. She had discovered that the small notepad was where Joe jotted down quick notes and follow up questions. The large notebook was where he expanded on theories and motives. He also went into greater detail about his interviews.

Nancy looked over at Vanessa. "There's a lot here. It's going to take us a while to go through all of this."

Vanessa smiled. "Good thing there's two of us."

Frank took a shower, brushed his teeth, and tidied up the bedroom he and Nancy shared. Then he headed toward the kitchen. Passing through the living room he saw Joe's discarded sweatshirt on the sofa and picked it up. He took it to Joe's room and tossed it on Joe's duffel bag. Frank gave half a thought to making the bed before deciding against it. Vanessa might want to take a nap later.

There was another chore Frank could do. Take out the trash. He headed for the kitchen, stopping by the table where Nancy and Vanessa were hunched over Joe's notes.

"Having any luck, ladies?"

Vanessa looked up. "Not yet. There's a lot to read through."

"You're welcome to join us," Nancy said with an enchanting smile.

"In a bit," Frank promised. "I have a couple of chores to take care of. I have to take out the trash and then scoop the doggie pooh in the backyard." His nose wrinkled, showing his distaste.

"Ahhh." Nancy sighed. "The not so pleasant side of owning a dog."

"True."

Frank tugged on a jacket, gathered up the trash, and exited out the kitchen door. He walked down the driveway and to the street where the big, plastic trash container stood. Trash pick-up was tomorrow. Frank was getting the trash out early. He lifted the lid and dropped the bag of trash inside. A neatly manicured hedge divided Frank's rental house from the neighboring house. It was all about privacy. No one could see what was going on in the yard next door. Like the old saying foretold, fences made good neighbors. In this case, hedges made good neighbors.

Frank shut the lid and froze. He had detected movement on the other side of the hedge. Could be an animal. Maybe the neighbor had a cat.

The snick of a handgun told him it wasn't a cat. He heard the soft footed approach of a man behind him.

"Hands up, Hardy."

Frank put his hands in the air. "I'm not armed, Boxberger."

"Good, then you won't mind if my man checks you."

Rough hands slid over Frank's torso and down his legs before he could respond.

"He's clean, boss."

Boxberger stepped into view on Frank's right. Frank turned his head and stared down the barrel of a Ruger LCP. Nice little handgun. Lightweight, compact, and powerful. The guy who'd patted Frank down came around on the left. He had an impressive handgun of his own. Frank felt the presence of a third man behind him. He was sure this man also had an impressive handgun.

Boxberger said, "Put your hands behind your back."

"And if I don't?" Frank stared into Boxberger's cold eyes.

"Things could get messy." Boxberger gave him a smile that promised dire consequences and no humor. "I don't like messy. Do you?"

"Not particularly." Frank lowered his hands and brought them together behind his back. He had run through various scenarios for how this situation could play out and came to the conclusion it was best not to resist. Resisting meant noise and noise would draw the women's attention. They would come outside to see what had caused the noise. Frank didn't want that. The women would become hostages, too. Somebody might get hurt. It was best if Boxberger had only one hostage.

Cold flexi-cuffs encircled Frank's wrists and were yanked tight. Frank grimaced, but held his tongue.

Boxberger stepped next to Frank and pressed the barrel of his gun into Frank's chest. "Now, we're going to take a little ride, Hardy."

Boxberger grabbed Frank's right arm and forced him to turn to the left. The man on the left grabbed Frank's left arm and helped propel Frank to the street. The man in the back followed. Frank heard his heavy breathing.

No one said a word as the group walked down the street to a waiting SUV. The man in the back broke ranks and jogged to the vehicle. He opened the back passenger door. Boxberger released his grip on Frank and peeled off to the right. The man on the left hauled Frank the last few steps to the vehicle and shoved Frank inside. The man shut the door and ran around to the other side of the vehicle. He opened the door and jammed himself in beside Frank.

Boxberger was in the front passenger seat. The third man was at the wheel.

So much for protecting the women, Frank thought as the vehicle drove away from the rental house.

# # # #

Predator stood beside the ATM machine and counted the money. Two hundred and fifty dollars. Not bad for a waitress in a small town. Predator had withdrawn all but ten dollars from Jolene's checking account. She was still in the trunk. Terrified and crying. When he'd opened the trunk and removed her gag, she had begged him to let her go. He had promised he would if she gave him her PIN number. That's all he wanted, he'd said, some cash so he could get out of town. She didn't believe him, he could see it in her eyes. But the stun gun – just the sight of it – had made her comply with his demand.

He tucked the money in his jacket pocket, zipped it up, and climbed into Jolene's car. Time to get rid of the car _and_ her. Predator knew a good place to ditch both of them. The river.

# # # #

Jolene lay in the trunk, her tongue pushing on the cloth gag. Working the gag was hard, tiring work. The trunk was warm and stuffy, making it difficult to breath. If only Jolene could get the gag out of her mouth then maybe she could breathe easier. She could scream for help, too. Working on the gag served another purpose. It kept her mind off of her impending doom.

The car was moving again and she dreaded to think where the man was taking her. He'd said he would let her go once he had her money. Well, he had it now. But she knew, as surely as the sun rose in the east, that he had no intention of releasing her.

# # # #

Predator slowed the car, veered off the paved road, and onto a rutted, weed infested path. He wasn't sure if vehicles were allowed on the path. It didn't matter. This vehicle was on a one way trip.

Predator saw the river up ahead. The path grew rougher as he neared the water and he slowed to five miles per hour. He steered the car around the thickest patches of mud. Didn't want the car getting stuck in the mud. That would ruin his plan.

# # # #

Jolene spit the cloth out of her mouth and coughed. Thank God, it felt good to take a deep, full breath. But where was the man taking her? She was bumped and jolted in the trunk. No manmade road was this rough. Perhaps, they were in the woods. Jolene steeled herself for what was to come. For the terror she would feel when he opened the trunk.

Make it quick, she prayed. If I must die, dear God, make it quick.

# # # #

Predator drove the car onto a rickety pier. The wood was rotted and warped. Predator wondered if the pier would withstand the weight of the car. His door was open in case he had to bail out. He stopped the car at the edge of the pier, put it in neutral, and buzzed down all the windows. The smell of fish and wet vegetation filled the vehicle. He killed the engine, got out, and shut the door. He walked to the front of the car and peered down. The front tires were an inch from the edge of the pier. Murky, green water lapped the rotting posts holding the pier up.

# # # #

Jolene lay perfectly still and listened. Where in the world was she? Where had the man taken her? She felt the car adjust to the sudden loss of weight and heard the driver's door slam shut. She cocked her head and strained an ear. Nothing. Nothing for one long minute. Then the car moved, just a gentle nudge forward and she heard the man grunt. He was right there at the trunk, grunting … pushing the car.

A chill touched the base of her spine. Suddenly, she was ice cold. Her jacket did nothing to warm her.

# # # #

The car rolled forward and plunged, hood first, into the weed choked water. The splash was small. The fall had not been great. The back fender banged against the edge of the pier and catch on the wood. The car was tilted at a forty-five degree angle. Its nose in the water, its tail stuck against the pier. Predator watched river water pour in through the front windows. The weight of the water would eventually pull the car under. Just a matter of time.

Predator tugged Jolene's key ring out of his pocket and tossed it in the river. His mission was complete. He took one last look at the car, at the water spilling into the open windows. It wouldn't be long now.

He picked his backpack up off the pier, flung it over his shoulder, turned, and walked away. He headed back to the paved road, back to civilization and his next mission – finding Deke Boxberger.

* * *

 _A/N: Oh dear, the time got away from me. Thanksgiving was wonderful (thank you all for your happy Thanksgiving wishes) and then it was on to decorating for Christmas and finalizing upcoming travel plans. Not to mention, this chapter was a bear to write. Well, some parts of it were. LOL Other parts were easy. Anyway, I'm still not getting notified of reviews, but at least I can come to the site and view them and answer them. Thank you, dear readers, who have left a review. I do appreciate you and your thoughtful words._

 _In case I don't get the next chapter out before Christmas, I'd like to wish everyone a very Merry Christmas!_


	36. Chapter 36

Chapter 36

Joe was at the Police Station, watching from a window. Wayne and Bulka were in a fenced yard, a place where prisoners were taken once a day to stretch their legs and catch a breath of fresh air. Two armed police officers kept an eye on the man and his dog.

Bulka was beyond happy, beyond ecstatic. Her tail wagged like a helicopter rotor getting ready for takeoff. She barked and pranced and those barks were happy ones, ones of pure joy. Wayne knelt in front of her, wrapped his arms around her neck, and buried his face in her fur. Joe almost broke down at the sight. He saw Wayne wipe a tear from his eye and Joe almost had to do the same.

Joe pushed away from the window and blew out a breath. He had to get those two reunited. One way or another, Joe had to clear Wayne of the murders of Dan Sagget and Dolores Gage, and not just for Wayne's sake. For Bulka's, too. She would be lost without Wayne. This display of affection made it clear to Joe that Wayne and Bulka needed each other.

Detective Ziegler appeared in the doorway. He nodded at Joe and held up a mug of coffee. "Want a cup?"

Joe shook his head. "Thanks, but no."

Ziegler walked to the viewing window and sipped his coffee as he watched Wayne and Bulka play fetch with a stick. "He loves that dog. No question about that."

Joe grinned. "That he does. And the dog loves him just as much."

Ziegler looked at Joe, studied his expression for a moment. "That lawyer you got for Banyan is a hellcat. The past few days she's pestered the Chief relentlessly, and I do mean relentlessly. I've never seen the Chief so flustered." Ziegler chuckled softly. "He said he'd do just about anything to keep _that woman_ from phoning him and demanding Banyan and his dog see each other. She was calling the Chief nonstop. She's got him all stirred up. Now, he's all 'balls to the wall.' Gotta solve these murders if for no other reason than to get _that woman_ out of town."

"She is a go-getter," Joe agreed with a smile. "And you're right, she won't rest until Banyan is cleared of all charges. We do need to solve these murders." Joe's gaze met Ziegler's. Joe was sending a message: _we_ , we together have to solve these murders.

Ziegler nodded like he understood, like he hadn't forgotten that he and Joe had agreed to share information and help each other in the investigation.

Joe leaned against the wall. "There's something else you need to know."

Ziegler took a gulp of coffee and swallowed. "Yeah, what's that?"

"My fiancée was attacked yesterday." Joe saw the shock in Ziegler's eyes. "Yeah, I think she was attacked by a man who was sent to follow me. This man tasered her and pushed her in a car. Luckily, she got away. The important thing for you to know is that this man was sent by Deke Boxberger."

Ziegler practically snarled. "Boxberger. Ugh. He's mixed up in all of these murders. Maybe he's the one who committed all of them."

Joe folded his arms across his chest. "Maybe. I think it more likely that Colonel Charles killed the hobos found buried on Nicholson's property. I believe the Colonel and Boxberger have been working together. The Colonel might be the one who murdered Nicholson's wife Linda."

"Hm." Ziegler scratched his chin. "The Colonel? Seems I need to question him again."

"Can't hurt," Joe said. "My problem is, I don't believe he, or Boxberger, killed Dan Sagget and Dolores Gage."

Ziegler frowned. "You don't?"

"No. Those murders were more personal and more brutal."

Ziegler's eyebrows rose and he tipped his head at the window in the direction of Wayne still playing with Bulka. "More personal? Banyan's got the most personal motive of all, abusive stepfather."

Joe unfolded his arms and looked out the window. It was a bright, sunny day. The guards were smiling at Bulka. She was having a good time fetching the stick. The simple joys of life.

"I know," Joe said, "but I don't believe he murdered his stepfather or mother."

"Well, then who did?" There was a bit of fire in Ziegler's tone.

Joe turned to the detective. "I don't know, but I'm working on finding out." Joe wished he had a better answer.

A young police officer burst into the room. The grave expression on his face said something big was up. Joe recognized the officer as the one who'd been hot for Monica LaMarca the other day.

The young officer pinned Ziegler with a tight stare. "Detective, there's a situation. The Chief needs you right away."

Ziegler remained calm. Young officers were prone to exaggeration. Ziegler drained his coffee and looked at Joe. "Talk to you later, Hardy."

Joe watched Ziegler and the officer leave. Joe wondered what was up. The young officer was certainly agitated. Joe hated being out of the loop. He wondered if more bodies had been found on Nicholson's property.

Two minutes later, Ziegler was back. Joe turned from the window. Ziegler's worried expression said something big and something bad had happened.

Ziegler drew in a breath and hesitated. Really bad, Joe thought.

"You said your fiancée was abducted yesterday? Pushed into a car?"

A frown descended upon Joe's brow. "I did. What .. what's going on?"

"We've got a woman trapped in the trunk of a car, sinking into the river. Word is, she was tasered and abducted. Sounds like it could be the same guy who abducted and tasered your fiancée."

Anger rose up in Joe's stomach and his hands curled into fists. "Has to be. Where's the woman and the car? We have to get to them."

Ziegler held up a hand, glanced out the window at Banyan and Bulka still playing, and back at Joe. "We will. First, what about the dog." He pointed out the window, at Bulka. "Can she track this guy for us?"

Joe quickly realized that Ziegler's question was based on the fact Bulka had found the dead hobos on Nicholson's property. "Hell yeah."

"Good," Ziegler said. "Get the dog and meet me in the lobby in five minutes. A fire truck and ambulance are en route to the river."

Ten minutes later, Joe was in Frank's SUV and following Ziegler's police cruiser. Bulka was in the back in her dog crate and whining. She had not wanted to leave Wayne. Now, Joe hoped she would be willing to track a scent for him. He was yanking her from a moment of pure happiness to one of pure chaos. Not the best way to prepare a dog for tracking.

However, the major thought occupying Joe's mind was, would the woman be rescued? Joe said a prayer as he drove. Let the woman survive. _And_ let her be able to describe the man who had abducted her.

# # # #

Jolene felt the cold water around her bound ankles. That water was steadily rising and sucking the warmth from her body. When the car plunged into the water, she had been tossed around like a rag doll. She had squirmed and twisted and contorted herself into a somewhat upright position. It had not been easy, not with her ankles and wrists bound. Her head was near the latch for the trunk. So close to a way out. Jolene almost cried at the thought. The only thing keeping her sane at the moment was the voices of men outside. They had heard her screams for help.

She had screamed long and hard, until her throat was raw and, at last, two male voices had come closer to the car and yelled that they were getting help. Jolene had yelled back her thanks before breaking down into sobs.

# # # #

Joe bounced over another rut and cursed. Frank was going to kill him. Absolutely, positively kill him for driving his SUV on this road. _Road?!_ _Ha_ , this was no road. It was a path. Maybe. Make that a _big, fat_ maybe.

Another rut and another expletive. Bulka whined in the back. She didn't like this path either.

Joe saw flashing lights up ahead, beyond Ziegler's cruiser, and breathed a sigh of relief. They were almost there. Thank god this drive was coming to an end and, with any luck at all, they were in time to save the woman.

# # # #

The wail of sirens had given Jolene hope. Now, the sirens had gone silent and Jolene heard strong male voices calling out orders. The words were muffled, but the resolute tone was undeniable. A sliver of hope grew in Jolene's heart. The water was up to her knees and the car was leveling out. The back end – where she was – was being pulled down into the river.

"Help! Hurry!" Jolene screamed, making the rescuers keenly aware of her dire situation.

# # # #

Joe parked Frank's SUV far away from the fire trucks, ambulance, and police cars. He saw Ziegler get of his cruiser and hurry over to the firemen. Joe looped the lanyard of his PI badge around his neck and climbed out of the SUV. Bulka was whimpering and barking her frustration in her dog crate. The shouts and excited voices outside the vehicle told her something important was happening and she wanted to be part of it.

Joe put her on a leash and let her out of the crate. Her ears were erect and capturing every sound. Her gaze latched onto the firemen and fire trucks and she tugged on the leash.

"Okay, okay," Joe said, "we're going that way, but you have to mind your manners."

Bulka gave a loud, sharp bark. _Yessir!_

Heads turned and eyebrows rose as Joe and Bulka approached. Well, Joe thought, now he and Bulka had everyone's attention. Men hauling chains stopped to look at the man and his dog, but quickly went back to dragging the chains toward the river.

Joe walked Bulka over to Detective Ziegler and the Fire Chief.

Ziegler gave a brief introduction, "This is Investigator Hardy and his canine partner. They'll be searching for traces of our suspect and trying to track him."

With the introduction out of the way, the Fire Chief explained his rescue plan to Ziegler and Joe. "We've got to stop that car from sinking. A couple of my men are getting ready to swim out to it and attach chains to the rear axle. While they're doing that another team will be attaching the other end of the chains to the aerial ladder on our main truck." The chief pointed at a fire truck backing up to the edge of the river. Its' aerial ladder was flat on the top of the truck and slowly sliding out over the river.

"Once those chains are all secure," the Chief continued, "we'll raise the ladder and lift the tail end of the car. We've got to keep it out of the water."

Ziegler eyed the fire truck now stopped at the edge of the river. Four firemen had leaped into action, attaching heavy chains to the ladder. Ziegler turned his worried eyes on the Fire Chief. "I hope this works."

"It will," the Chief said with confidence. "Once the car's stable one of my men will climb up on to it and pry the trunk open. Mark my words, we're going to rescue that young lady."

Joe appreciated the Fire Chief's 'can do' attitude. It reminded him of the Army. Where there was a will, there was a way. Still, Joe hazarded a question. "Is that car axle going to be able to bear the weight of the car _and_ the water?"

The Fire Chief assessed Joe for a full ten seconds before responding. "Good question and we've considered it. That's why we'll also be running a chain through the back windows of the car and attaching it to another fire truck. We'll have that car suspended by multiple points."

Joe gave a satisfied nod. "Sounds like a solid plan."

# # # #

The water was past Jolene's hips and rising fast. The cold water crept along her back and sides. The car was flattening out. It wasn't so tilted anymore and that made Jolene's situation evermore perilous. Her muscles ached. They were tired and cramped from the awkward position she was in; knees bent, neck bent, shoulders hunched. But she had to maintain the position or risk drowning before she was rescued.

Suddenly, a male voice called out, "Brace yourself. We're getting ready to lift the back of the car."

"Okay," Jolene yelled back. This was it, the moment of truth. She drew in a breath, let it out slow, and prayed, _God be with me_.

# # # #

Joe watched the ladder move skyward and lift the chains off the ground. The chains stretched to their full lengths and tightened. All eyes switched to the tail of the car. It rose. Slow and steady. Joe heard the metal adjusting and straining to a new position. He, and everyone, held their breath. Water poured out of the back windows and into the river. Definitely, a good sign.

The Fire Chief shouted to the man operating the ladder, "Hold up! Hold up! Let the water drain a bit."

The ladder stopped moving and the Fire Chief called to a man on the edge of the river. This fireman had been in the river attaching the chains to the axle. He was soaking wet and didn't care.

"Landry, check on the victim. Make sure she's okay."

Landry waded into the water and swam the short distance to the car. He yelled up at the trunk, got an answer, and gave the Fire Chief a thumbs up.

The Chief turned to the ladder operator and yelled, "Hoist it up a bit more. I want to drain more of that water before Landry climbs up on the trunk."

# # # #

Jolene felt the car tip and the water recede. She kept herself stable as best she could. The water was at her knees and lowering. The car creaked and moaned, protesting the forces being exerted upon it. Chains held it up while water tried to pull it down.

Oh please, Jolene prayed, don't let the car rip apart. Not now when she was so close to being saved.

Jolene felt a moment of dizziness and realized she was lightheaded. There seemed to be less oxygen in the trunk. Should she yell for help? Yell for the men to hurry?

# # # #

Fireman Landry used the open back window of the car to heave himself up. He stood on the window sill, wiped the water from his face, and climbed onto the back window of the car. It was a slippery operation and Joe, like everyone else, watched with hearts pounding.

When Landry was stable on the window he yelled to the woman in the trunk, "Close your eyes, miss. I'm going to pry the trunk open."

Landry crawled on the lid of the trunk to the key hole. He took a crow bar type tool off his belt and got to work. When the trunk was ready to open, Landry grabbed onto one of the chains and swung himself off of the lid. He held onto the chain with one hand and a leg. He popped the lid open with his free hand. Everyone cheered when a dripping wet Landry gave a big thumbs up. The smile on his face said the woman was alive.

The Fire Chief called for another truck to move into place. This truck started extending its' basket ladder toward the dangling car, ready to receive Landry and the woman.

Bulka tugged on her leash and Joe looked down. "What is it, girl?" Joe followed the direction of Bulka's gaze and saw why she was excited. She had spotted someone she knew and that someone was walking toward Joe and Bulka.

"Hardy, how'd you wind up here?"

Joe smiled. "I could ask you the same thing, Whiskey."

Bulka stretched her head to Whiskey and he petted her. "Hey there, girl. You remember me?"

"I'd say she does." Joe grinned and nodded at the man standing beside Whiskey.

"This is my buddy, Shane." Whiskey hitched a thumb at his friend. "Me and him were fishing just down the river a ways when we saw the man push the car off the pier."

"Yeah," Shane said, "when we came upstream to investigate, we heard the woman screaming. That's when Whiskey called the police. We're waiting to talk to the police detective."

"Ziegler," Whiskey said. "I see him over there. He's the same one you and me talked to the other night." Whiskey was referring to the night he, Joe, and Frank had found the dead hobos.

Joe's adrenaline surged. Whiskey had seen the man. "I'm here with Ziegler," Joe said. "Bulka and I are working with him. You saw the man who pushed the car?"

Whiskey told Joe his story. Whiskey had gone back to the shipping container graveyard to get his friend Shane out of there. Whiskey told Shane about the murders and that Colonel Charles was the main suspect. Shane packed immediately and the two hobos slipped out of the graveyard around midnight.

They'd camped near the river last night and hadn't made a fire for fear of being discovered by the Colonel or one of his minions. Today, the men had moved farther down the river and then decided to fish. Their bellies were empty and their cache of food was low. They were sitting on the river bank, enjoying the morning sun when they heard a vehicle. That was a strange thing to hear out here where there weren't any decent roads. The men hid themselves in the tall grass and watched the car drive out onto the rickety pier. That had surprised them. They were sure the pier would collapse, but it hadn't. Then the driver got out and pushed the car right off the end of the pier.

"He seemed satisfied with himself," Whiskey said. "He threw something in the river, picked up his pack, and walked away pretty as you please. Walked back the way he'd come." Whiskey pointed to the west, toward the highway. It was the same way Joe and everyone else had driven in.

Joe looked at the path all the vehicles had worn into the ground and then at Whiskey. "Can you describe the man? Height, weight, hair color?"

Shane spoke up, "He's a big ass dude. Probably six-four. Looked muscular."

"He was wearing an Army jacket," Whiskey said. "It was old and faded. Probably a surplus item. Couldn't see his hair though. He had a cap on. A beanie."

"Could you guess his age?" Joe hoped for something more concrete.

Whiskey shrugged. "Thirty-ish. Hard to say. We weren't real close to him."

It wasn't much of a description, but it matched Vanessa's and Nancy's description of the man. Big. Huge. Muscular.

Ziegler signaled to Joe. "Thanks, Whiskey and Shane. Here's a card with my cell phone number and my brother's. If either of you see this man again, call me or my brother immediately."

Whiskey took the offered card. "Will do. Hope you and the detective catch this son-of-a bitch."

Joe's eyes narrowed and his mouth hardened. "I plan on it and when I do catch him, I'm going to pound him into the ground." Joe tightened his grip on Bulka's leash and walked her over to Ziegler.

Ziegler jutted his chin at Whiskey and Shane. "Those two saw our suspect. They get a good look at him?"

"Big, muscular, and wearing an old Army jacket," Joe said. "Matches my fiancée's description. She also said the man has short, dark hair and was clean shaven. Whiskey and Shane say the suspect was headed back to the highway. I figure he probably hitch-hiked into Healy or another town."

Ziegler rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. "Okay, that's good info. I'll issue a BOLO. You and the dog head over to the pier and see if she picks up a scent. Maybe you two will find a clue. I'm going to interview the victim real quick before they take her to the hospital. I'll meet up with you in a bit."

"Yes sir."

Joe and Bulka headed to the pier. They passed firemen packing up gear and equipment. The truck with the suspended car had gently brought the car to the shore and lowered it. Water gushed from the bottom of the car doors, flowed down the bank, and back into the river. Fireman Landry was toweling off near the car. Two firemen were helping the rescued woman to a waiting ambulance. Medics had a gurney ready, but the woman waved it away. She was determined to walk on her own two feet. Good for her, Joe thought. Determination would get her through the next few hours.

Joe walked out onto the rickety pier, Bulka by his side. He bounced on his heels, testing the pier's stability before venturing further. Seemed solid, so on he and Bulka went. She had her nose to the wood sniffing for scents. Joe grinned. Smart dog. She knew they were looking for a bad guy.

# # # #

Nancy read through her notes. Yes, it was an avenue worth exploring. She wrote a name on her notepad, underlined it, and laid her pen down. She was starting to see double. Time for a break.

Vanessa looked over at Nancy as she rose from the table. "You found something."

"No," Nancy said.

"You wrote something on your pad," Vanessa protested mildly.

Nancy smiled at her friend. "Just a name. Someone who's background I want to check out. It's probably nothing."

"Someone Joe hasn't checked out yet?"

"He hasn't had time," Nancy said simply. She looked at the sliding glass doors that led to the backyard. Her gaze wandered across the lawn. No Frank. Wasn't he going to scoop doggie poop? Nancy glanced at her watch and her eyes widened. "Heavens, we've been going through Joe's notes for over an hour."

Vanessa got up from the table. "Time flies .."

"Frank," Nancy said, a hint of panic in her voice. "Where's Frank? He said he was taking the trash out and then he would be in the backyard .."

Realization dawned upon Vanessa and she stared, open-mouthed, at Nancy. "He, he has to be outside somewhere."

Nancy dashed to the bedroom and retrieved her handgun, a Glock 19. She returned to the kitchen, where Vanessa was leaning over the sink and peering out the window.

Vanessa turned, saw the gun in Nancy's hand and gasped. She quickly gathered her senses and said, "I don't see him outside, but the trash is gone. He obviously took it out."

"Stay here," Nancy said. "I'm going out to look at the trash container. Lock the door after I leave."

Vanessa was about to argue that last point, but Nancy's stern expression told her not to. "Okay."

Nancy left the house and stealthily crept toward the trash container. It looked perfectly fine. The lid was on it and nothing appeared disturbed. Then Nancy spied all the footprints. Tons of them. Footprints on top of footprints. The grass and ground had been damp when they were made. Now, the ground had hardened and preserved the prints.

Nancy could not determine how many men had been here, but certainly, more than two. Nancy scanned her surroundings and followed the footprints to the road. Here the prints ran parallel to the road. Again, footprints on top of footprints. Nancy followed until the prints abruptly ended in a jumble of footprints and tire tracks.

Frank had been taken, taken away while she was going through Joe's notes. Nancy berated herself for not noticing Frank's absence sooner. Frank had been gone for nearly an hour. Worried and disheartened, Nancy hurried back to the house. Joe should be home soon and she was going to have to tell him the bad news.

* * *

 _A/N: So very sorry for the long delay. I was out of the country on vacation with iffy internet service and then when I got home I had so many things to do and catch up on. Let me extend a belated thank you to those reviewers I did not have a chance to respond to via PM. Thank you everyone who has left a review. I do appreciate your kind words!_


	37. Chapter 37

Chapter 37

Joe walked Bulka away from the pier. They had found nothing there. Too many people had walked on the pier during the rescue operation. Joe led Bulka along the flattened path where all the fire trucks, police cars, and an ambulance had driven. Everyone had come in along the same path. Even Joe. Even the suspect. Everyone had unwittingly driven over the man's footprints. Searching the dirt path seemed futile to Joe, so he walked Bulka into the woods and brush. They searched for footprints and clues in the shade of tall trees and among pine needles.

Fire trucks started leaving the area, driving over the path, flattening it even more. The ambulance slowly backed up and drove over the path. One of the police cruisers followed as an escort to the hospital and to guard the victim once she was there.

Joe shook his head. So much activity and all of it obliterating the clues. Finding a footprint was going to be next to impossible, but he kept at it, leading Bulka this way and that. She had no scent to latch onto and instead, sniffed for human traces in the bushes and around the trees. She and Joe covered a lot of ground, heading in the general direction of the highway. Joe figured the man went there, to the road, to hitch a ride.

At last, Bulka picked up a scent and started leading Joe. He let her off the leash and she wandered through the woods, nose down, eyes and ears alert, tail wagging. Joe studied the path Bulka was following. It was one a person would choose if they wished to be hidden from the highway. Always better to sneak up to the highway and be standing there when a car came along as opposed to be seen hiking out of the woods. That could look suspicious. What had one been doing in the woods, a driver would ask themselves. Well, Joe knew full well what this someone had been doing in the woods and it would likely make the evening news.

"Whoa! Hold up, Bulka." Joe couldn't believe his eyes. There in the black soil by the road was a beautiful footprint.

Joe got down on one knee for a closer look. It was pristine. This could be the piece of evidence that hung the bastard who'd attacked Vanessa and the woman in the trunk. Bulka tried to sniff the footprint and Joe shooed her away. He feared she might step on it.

"Git, girl. Here, let's both get away from it and the road." A car flashed by as he snapped on Bulka's leash and led her to the edge of the trees.

Joe phoned Ziegler and informed him of the print. Ziegler said he'd be right there and that, by the way, a Crime Scene Investigation Unit was on the way.

"Great," Joe said, "Bulka andmeI will stand guard until you or the CSI unit gets here."

Ziegler chuckled softly. "Can't be too careful. FYI, I've got a sketch artist coming in from Ames. That's a town about twenty miles away. He's going to meet with our victim – her name's Jolene Brown – this afternoon after the doctors check her out."

"How's Miss Brown doing?" Joe tensed, expecting the worst.

"Not bad. Roughed up a little. Our prep zapped her with a stun gun. Sound familiar?"

Joe's jaw tightened and a muscle twitched violently in his cheek. "Yeah, sounds like what happened to my fiancée."

"Speaking of which," Ziegler said, "I'd like your fiancée to take a look at the sketch the artist does, once it's done, and see if she can ID it as the same guy who attacked her."

"Good idea. I'm sure she'll be happy to look at it."

"Perfect, we'll set that up for tomorrow morning. I'm on my way to your position. See you a few minutes."

Joe ended the call. The muscle in his cheek was still twitching. Vanessa was front and center in his mind. He wondered how she was doing and if she and Nancy had found anything in his notes. He didn't have time to call them and ask, but suddenly, he realized he'd been gone longer than his stated two hours. Vanessa and Nancy might have started to worry about him. He should text them before Ziegler arrived.

# # # #

Nancy and Vanessa stood in the kitchen. Nancy laid her gun on the counter and massaged her temples.

Vanessa glanced at the gun and then at Nancy. "Did you find anything outside?"

Nancy put her hands on the kitchen counter and looked out the window over the sink. The view was of the side yard, not of the trash container. "A lot of footprints," she said and turned to Vanessa. "Somebody – several somebodies – surprised Frank and took him. I found tire tracks, too."

A hand rose slowly to Vanessa's mouth. "Oh my god. Who? Who'd want to take Frank?" She could understand Joe being taken. He was actively involved in the murder investigation.

Nancy shook her head, placed a hand on a hip, and massaged her forehead. "Hard to say. But given what we know, I'd say Nicholson was involved. He's been trying to stop Joe from investigating from day one."

Those were Vanessa's exact thoughts and she thought of something else, too. "Nancy, do you think Joe was the real target today and not Frank?"

Nancy stopped rubbing her forehead and arched eyebrow at her friend. "You might be right. Joe could have been the intended target."

"So, they took the wrong brother?" Vanessa said.

Nancy's lips settled into a grim line. "They can still use Frank to lure Joe in." Suddenly, Nancy spun and looked around the kitchen. She didn't see what she was looking for and strode into the living room.

Vanessa followed, her achy knees slowing her down a bit. "What is it, Nancy? What are you looking for?"

"Frank's phone. If he has his phone, I can call him. Maybe I'm jumping to conclusions, maybe he's outside somewhere."

Vanessa could see that Nancy did not seriously believe this. It was merely wishful thinking.

Frank's phone was not in the living room. Nancy did an abrupt U-turn and headed back to the dining table where she and Vanessa had pored over Joe's notes. Nancy's phone was on the table next to Joe's notebook and notepad. She grabbed up her phone and punched in Frank's number. The women heard Frank's phone chirping in the bedroom and hurried there. Nancy scooped Frank's phone off the bedside table and ended the call. As she stood there with Frank's phone in her hand, she wondered if it was a _good thing_ or a _bad thing_ that he did not have his phone.

The phone chirped in Nancy's hand and both women jumped. Nancy realized her phone in the kitchen had chimed, too.

Nancy looked at the screen on Frank's phones. "It's Joe," she told Vanessa. "He's texting all of us."

The women hurried back to the dining table. Nancy grabbed her own phone and read the message to Vanessa. "Joe says he and Bulka are out with Detective Ziegler. A woman was found tied up in the trunk of her car early this morning. The car had been pushed into the river."

Joe's message swept through Vanessa's mind and the whole world held an eerie chill. Another woman had been attacked less than 24 hours after her own attack. "Is, is the woman okay?"

Nancy nodded and continued, "Firemen rescued her. Joe thinks her abductor was the same man who abducted you."

Vanessa felt herself wilt and sank onto a chair. Another woman had suffered because of _that_ horrible man. "Where's the man now?"

Vanessa's weak voice caused Nancy to search her friend's face. Nancy softened her tone. "Joe and Bulka are searching for clues and Ziegler is questioning the woman."

A frown darkened Vanessa's brow as she looked up at Nancy. "He might be, here, in Healy. The man. He might have followed us here."

Nancy lowered herself and sat next to Vanessa at the table. "I don't think he followed us. I was watching for a tail as I drove. However, I'd be foolish if I said it wasn't possible."

Vanessa ran a shaky hand over her hair and hooked pale blonde hair behind an ear. "Please, Nan, be honest with me. Where do you think the man is now?"

Nancy paused and considered her answer. "Honestly?" Vanessa nodded. "Here, in Healy. It's the most logical answer. We know he followed Joe to River Heights. Once he realized Joe had left River Heights it would make sense for the man to assume Joe went back to Healy. Given that theory, then our mystery man would also return here. He probably had to check-in with his boss, too. Joe said this man, whoever he is, is working with Boxberger and Nicholson."

Vanessa nodded slowly as thoughts whirled in her head. "Another question, do you think this man was involved in Frank's disappearance?"

Nancy shook her head, dismissing the idea. "No, the timing doesn't fit. Frank went missing early this morning and this woman and her car were pushed in the river early this morning. The man couldn't be in two places at the same time."

"No, I suppose not." Vanessa sat hunched at the table, her knees aching. She wondered what they should do next. Only one thing came to mind. "Should we call Joe and tell him about Frank?" Vanessa breathed deeply in anticipation of a response.

Nancy pushed aside the fear and worry settling around her heart. The initial shock of discovering Frank gone was receding, being replaced by a desire to find him. She lifted her chin. "Yes, we have to. Joe needs to know about his brother and he needs to know before one of the kidnappers contact him." Frustration furrowed Nancy's brow. "I wish there was more we could do."

"Joe's with that detective," Vanessa said, hope surfacing in her voice. "Maybe he can help."

Nancy nodded. "Maybe he can."

Vanessa noticed that Nancy had gone very pale and did not appear overly confident in Ziegler's help.

# # # #

Joe pointed to the footprint and a wide grin broke across Ziegler's face. He looked over at Joe. "This is good, Hardy. Real good. I'll have the CSI unit cast and photograph this the minute they get here."

Joe's phone binged and he checked the screen. "Excuse me, it's my soon to be sister-in-law. Might be important." Joe's mind went to his notes. Maybe Nancy had found something.

Ziegler nodded and Joe stepped out of earshot to take the call. If Ziegler had been watching he would have seen Joe's expression go from neutral to panic to anger.

Ziegler was bending over, staring at a partial boot print when Joe returned to his side. "I found another print," Ziegler said with a grin.

"Yeah, great." There was no enthusiasm in Joe's voice. "I have to go. My brother's missing."

Ziegler straightened up and a concerned frown creased his brow. "Missing?"

"My sister-in-law says he's vanished. She found footprints and tire tracks. She suspects he's been kidnapped."

Shock registered on Ziegler's face. "What? How? When?"

"This morning, about the time we were driving here."

"Damn," Ziegler hissed. "I, um, all I can think of is Nicholson and Boxberger. You think they had something to do with your brother's disappearance?"

Joe squared his shoulders. "I can't think of anyone else who would want to take Frank."

"But why?" Ziegler said. "What do they accomplish by kidnapping your brother?"

Joe shrugged. He felt helpless and removed from the situation. He hadn't been home when it happened. Now his brain scrambled for a solution. "I'm not sure. Maybe Nicholson's trying to send me a message. _Back off, Hardy_." Joe threw his hands in the air and let them fall. "Hell, I don't know. I need to get home. I need to be with my fiancée and sister-in-law in case whoever took Frank comes back."

Ziegler nodded his understanding. "Yeah, of course. Listen, I'll put out a BOLO on your brother."

Joe gave half a shrug. "I don't think it'll help, but thanks."

Ziegler laid a hand on Joe's shoulder. "If either Nicholson or Boxberger contacts you, you call me, you hear? I don't want you going off all by yourself trying to save your brother. Nicholson's not somebody you mess around with."

Joe swallowed hard and blew out a breath. "I'll keep you posted."

Ziegler gave Joe a look. "Now why do I not believe that?"

Joe tugged on Bulka's leash and started walking her toward the river and Frank's SUV.

"Don't try and be a hero, Hardy," Ziegler called after him. "If Nicholson calls you, you better call me."

Joe didn't respond. He just kept walking.

# # # #

His knees were drawn up to his chest. The earth was cool and damp beneath his feet. They had taken his boots and socks and bound his ankles together with zip-ties. They had also taken his jacket and shirt. He was nude from the waist up and cold. A chill was seeping into his bones. His bare back rested against the earthen wall. It, like the earth beneath his feet, was cool and damp.

Frank had a sick feeling he might die here, wherever _here_ was. His hands were bound behind his back and he was blindfolded. The blindfold seemed unnecessary. Not a speck of light peeked around the edges of the blindfold. Frank was somewhere dark, damp, and underground. He was somewhere he didn't want to be.

He was alone with his thoughts and those thoughts kept circling back to Nancy and Joe. By now Nancy had realized he was gone and had called Joe. They were looking for him.

He hoped.

But where would they look? They had no clue where he was. He had no clue where he was.

Boxberger. He's the one who knew. Frank hoped Joe hunted Boxberger down and beat the information out of him.

A shiver trickled down Frank's spine. _I gotta keep it together_ , Frank thought. _Think positive thoughts. Joe will find me. Joe and Nancy. I just have to hang in there. Have faith in them …_

* * *

 _A/N: Thank you everyone that has left a review. Reviews are always appreciated and help to motivate an author. I try to PM everyone and thank them personally. If I missed anyone, I apologize. As a side note, I still do not get notified when a review is posted to any of my stories. I also do not receive notification if someone PMs me. It's kind of frustrating. I have emailed the 'powers that be' and told them about the problem, but so far, I have not received a response. I have asked two other authors if they are receiving notifications and they are. Guess I'm the lucky one who is not. Take care everyone!_


	38. Chapter 38

Chapter 38

Travis walked into Deke Boxberger's office and stood at parade rest in front of Deke's desk. Deke looked up and eyed his subordinate expectantly.

"It's done," Travis said. He stared straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with his boss.

Deke leaned back in his chair, a frown settling into the groves of his forehead. "Something wrong, Travis?"

"No." The answer was too quick. No thought put into it and Travis's gaze never left the wall above Deke's head.

Deke pushed back his chair, stood, and leaned over his desk. "Look me in the eye and say that."

Travis's gaze hesitantly, reluctantly, came round to Deke's penetrating frown. "No. Nothing's wrong."

Deke walked around his desk and stood next to Travis. Deke studied the man's profile. Saw the stubborn set of his chin.

Travis kept his gaze fixed on the wall like he was boring a hole into it.

Deke and Travis had met in the Marine Corps. Deke had gotten Travis the job at Nicholson's Dockworks when Travis mustered out of the Corps. Deke had made it clear then that working for Nicholson could involve doing some 'unpleasant' things, things no one talked about, not even to each other. You did your job and moved on. End of discussion.

Travis had said he was okay with that. Hell, hadn't they done a ton of unpleasant things in Afghanistan? Things they never talked about. They had both laughed, raised a beer in celebration of Travis' new job, and said, _Yeah, life was a bitch_.

A sip of cold beer and Deke had said, _Wasn't that the truth?_

But today was the first time Deke had ordered Travis to do something truly outside his comfort zone. And judging by Travis's demeanor, he hadn't been one hundred percent okay with the orders Deke had given.

"You still haven't looked me in the eye," Deke quietly reminded Travis.

Travis slid his gaze over to Deke. Disdain shone in Travis's eyes and a corner of his upper lip lifted in a sneer.

Deke grinned like a wolf going in for the kill. "You having second thoughts? Don't like gettin' your hands dirty?"

Travis breathed in deeply, held his breath, and let it out slowly through his nose. He considered his answer carefully. "I'm just curious, Deke. You know me, I like to know the big picture. I like to know _why_ we're doing something."

"Why?" Deke laughed out loud and then grew serious, eerily so. "Psyops, my friend." Deke slapped a hand on Travis's shoulder and squeezed hard. "We have to get the brothers scared, scared enough they'll leave Healy. This time tomorrow, they're going to be asking themselves, is hunting down a murderer really worth our lives?" Deke felt the tension in Travis's shoulder relax and he pulled away his hand.

Travis's mouth bunched up like a fist. "That's what this is all about? Scaring two PIs?"

The doubt in Travis's voice troubled Deke. Deke didn't like doubt, doubt bred second guessing which eventually led to questioning orders. None of which was good for business.

Deke put the onus back on Travis. "What else would it be about?" Deke smiled. Let Travis answer that question.

Travis looked away, let his gaze wander around the room, the nice office. Definitely a step up in the world for Deke. A huge step up from how they had lived in Afghanistan. It had been Travis's experience that men didn't like giving up nice things once they had acquired them. Especially hard earned nice things.

"Okay," Travis said, "it's about scaring two PIs." His eyes sought Deke's. "And if what you have planned doesn't scare them, nothing will."

Deke shrugged like he was shrugging off the smallest of things. "I always say, go big or go home."

"Right." Doubt and suspicion lingered in Travis's voice.

"Speaking of which, you're free to go home."

Travis gave Deke a look. "You don't need me for tonight?"

Deke shook his head. "Nah, I can handle tonight by myself." Better that way, he thought. No witnesses. He sat at his desk and looked at an invoice.

"Okay." Travis started for the door, put his hand on the knob, and said, "Call if you need me. I mean it."

Deke looked up from the paper his was reading. "Will do. It's nice to know you've got my back."

"Always will." Travis gave a curt nod, opened the door, and left.

Well, not tonight you don't, Deke thought, a grin lifting a corner of his mouth. Not tonight. Deke went back to reading the invoice on his desk. He needed to finish up his office duties and then the fun could begin.

# # # #

Joe rolled to a stop in the driveway of the rental house and parked next to Nancy's car. He braked a little hard. Too much adrenaline pumping through his veins. He and Bulka met Nancy and Van at the front door. Bulka gave her happy bark and bounded into the house.

Joe hugged Vanessa and kissed her while Nancy shut and locked the door.

Joe pulled back and looked at his fiancée. "You okay?"

"I'm fine. It's Frank we need to worry about."

Joe released Vanessa and turned to Nancy. "Where'd it happen?"

"At the trash container. Frank took the trash out this morning and, from what I can tell, was surprised by several men."

"Show me." Joe was already heading for the back door in the kitchen.

Everyone went outside. Joe, Nancy, Van, and Bulka. The group walked the short distance to the trash container. Nancy got down on one knee and waved a hand over the mass of footprints embedded in the dirt.

"I tried to figure out how many people made these prints," she said, "but it's impossible to say for sure. I feel confident in saying it's more than two." Nancy looked up at Joe for confirmation.

He sank into a crouch near her and examined the prints. "Yeah, more than two people for sure. I noticed something else."

Nancy shot him a curious look. "What?"

"No struggle," Joe said pointing at the prints. "No drag marks or torn up grass. No signs of a fight."

Nancy's brows rose. "You're right. I hadn't noticed that." Of course, she had been in a hurry to get back to the house.

Joe put his hands on his knees and pushed himself up. "Frank left without a fight and there's only one way that would happen."

Nancy got to her feet. She was quick with an answer. "Whoever surprised him had guns."

Joe grinned at Nancy. "Very good, Drew. And that's another fact that tells me it was more than one person who surprised Frank. One person with a gun, Frank would've thrown a few punches. Actually, I've seen Frank disarm a man easily. But two or three men with guns? No. That many men, Frank is outnumbered and he's leaving quietly." Joe glanced at Vanessa and then Nancy. "Frank probably didn't want to draw attention to the situation. He didn't want either of you coming out and getting caught, too."

Bulka sniffed at the prints. Vanessa motioned at the dog. "Can Bulka track whoever left the prints?"

Joe scratched his head and frowned. "Maybe, but I'm guessing there's a lot of scents mingled together. She's probably smelling Frank's scent and wondering where he is."

"We all are," Vanessa said quietly and hugged herself, warding off the chilly afternoon air.

Joe scanned the street and the houses that were all set far apart. Someone in one of the houses might have seen something, but he wasn't ready to go knocking on doors. Not yet. "Let's go inside," he said. "I don't like standing out here in the open."

# # # #

Joe let Bulka into the backyard. He filled her water dish and tossed her chew bone on the grass. She immediately started sniffing every tree and shrub in the yard. Joe figured – between the sniffing and the bone – Bulka would be busy for a while.

Nancy stacked and moved Joe's notebook and notepad to the side of the dining table. She thought of the name she had written on her own notepad. Now wasn't the time to discuss it. Frank came first.

Vanessa carried glasses of water to the table and set them down. Joe entered the room and everyone took a seat at the dining table.

Nancy spoke first. "So, how do we get Frank back?" Apprehension laced her voice.

Joe looked at his soon to be sister-in-law. He could see she was worried and doing her best to hide it. Truthfully, they all were worried and with good reason. Wherever Frank was, he was unarmed and sans cell phone. So even if he managed to escape, he had no way to call for help.

Joe drank some of his water and said, "We figure out who took him."

"Nicholson and Boxberger," Nancy said instantly.

"My thoughts exactly," Joe said, "and I know where Boxberger lives. I plan on paying him a visit shortly."

"I'm going with you," Nancy said and started to get up.

Joe saw the fire in her deep blue eyes and shook his head. "No, you and Van are staying here with Bulka. She's had a long day and I don't want to take her out again and I don't want her left home alone." It was a feeble excuse. Anything to dissuade Nancy from joining him. Joe remembered his last visit to Boxberger's house. The fight. Joe figured there would be another fight. Nancy didn't need to see that. She might try and stop him and this time he didn't want anyone stopping him.

Nancy's settled back in her chair. Her lips formed a hard line and the fire in her eyes flared. Joe could tell she was debating whether to challenge him on going to Boxberger's. At last, she said, "Okay, Van and I will stay here while you go to Boxberger's." Her tone made it clear she wasn't happy.

Vanessa glanced at the clock on the stove. It was approaching three p.m. "Is anyone hungry? I'm hungry. Nancy and I could start dinner while Joe's gone." She looked at Joe. "You won't be gone long, will you?"

Joe wasn't sure how to answer that question. How was he supposed to know how long he would be gone? Then he realized this was Vanessa's attempt at defusing the tension between him and Nancy.

"An hour or two," he said.

Vanessa glared at him. "You said that when you left this morning and you wound up being gone for almost five hours."

Joe held out his hands, defensive now. "How am I supposed to know how long I'll be gone? I might have to wait for Boxberger to show up and I don't think he's going to be too cooperative when he does show up."

"That's why you shouldn't go alone." The fire flared in Nancy's eyes again.

"I want Frank back," Joe spat out.

"We all do!" Nancy countered and Joe saw the tears in her eyes.

The room went silent. The pain each person felt swirled round them and through them. The atmosphere was somber and grim.

"Okay," Joe said calmly. "Nancy, you're right. I shouldn't go alone, but I'm going to. You have to trust me on this." He looked at Vanessa. She seemed ready to cry, too. He shouldn't leave her for long. The lunatic who had attacked her was still out there. "I-I won't be gone long. I promise. I don't expect Boxberger to tell me anything. He's more likely to gloat in my face."

Nancy drank some water and quietly said, "I'd like to offer a suggestion."

"Of course." Joe nodded. He was glad the tension between them had dissipated.

"If you don't get anywhere with Boxberger, then we set up surveillance on him tonight," Nancy said. "We watch his every move. You and I can take turns staking out his house. If he leaves, one of us will be on his tail."

Joe grinned at Nancy. "I was thinking along the same lines."

"Good." Nancy returned the grin. "Then we're agreed."

Joe drank more of his water and stood. "You can take the first watch at six."

"Fine by me," Nancy said.

# # # #

Joe was locked and loaded and out of the house by three-fifteen. His Beretta was tucked in his shoulder holster and a survival knife was strapped to his leg. Just a little backup should things turn ugly.

Joe had promised the women he would be back by five-thirty. The women were going to make a salad and he was going to pick up sandwiches on his way home. That meant his time at Boxberger's would be short. Didn't matter. Joe didn't think he would need much time at Boxberger's.

At quarter to four, Joe turned onto Boxberger's road. It was a nice, quiet road nestled in the woods. Pines, oaks, and maples crowded the right side of the road. Trailers lined the left side. There was plenty of space between the trailers, offering homeowners plenty of privacy.

Joe drove past Boxberger's trailer and saw that his red truck wasn't in the driveway. That was good. Joe wanted to be in place before Boxberger got home from work. If he even went to work today. Joe couldn't get too wrapped up in _what ifs_. He had to go with logic and logic said that if Boxberger left work around four, and the drive from the docks to his trailer took approximately thirty minutes, then he should arrive home about four-thirty.

Joe scanned the right side of the road and found a good spot to pull off. He eased Frank's SUV into the deep shadows of massive oak and turned off the engine. Joe muted his phone, got out of the SUV, and zipped up his jacket. Fall weather had definitely set in. It was going to be cold tonight. That meant he needed to find his brother sooner rather than later. Joe turned his collar up against the chill in the air and slipped into the trees. He weaved his way behind bushes and thick-trunked trees, trying to stay invisible. A shrub across the road from Boxberger's trailer provided the perfect cover and Joe crouched beside it. Now it was a waiting game. Would Boxberger come home?

What Joe didn't know was that he was not alone. Thirty feet away, another person was crouched in the woods, watching him.

# # # #

Predator had to still his hand. It wasn't easy. That hand wanted desperately to unsheathe the Ka-Bar knife on his hip and drive it into Hardy's chest. Drive it in up to the hilt. God, that would feel good. Incredibly good. Predator thought better of it though and told the lizard part of his brain to relax. He had no real reason to kill Hardy other than the fact that he could. Besides, it wasn't smart to kill Hardy. Not yet. Hardy had information Predator wanted, like, _Where was the blonde?_ Predator would dearly love to know that.

Hardy was here in Healy as was Predator. Hardy was here at Boxberger's trailer waiting for Boxberger, as was Predator. Seemed they both had a burning desire to see Boxberger.

The men stayed in their positions for close to an hour, silent and observant. Finally, Joe checked his wrist watch. It was four-fifty. He had to go. He had to stop by the convenience store and pick up sandwiches. Vanessa would never trust him again if he wasn't home by five-thirty as promised.

Joe got to his feet, shook out the kinks in his legs, and started walking to Frank's SUV. Halfway there, Joe paused, the hairs on his neck lifting. He looked over his shoulder, looked at the place where he had been hidden. His sixth sense was telling him he was being watched. Someone was out there, in the bushes. Joe took a few steps toward the SUV, but kept his head turned in the direction of his hiding place. That sixth sense had his whole neck tingling. Joe took cover behind a tree and searched the surrounding bushes. He scanned for movement and listened for any sound that didn't belong. After a long minute, he headed toward the SUV again, his steps quick and urgent, his neck still tingling. He couldn't shake the feeling that he had been in danger.

Predator sat sill, hardly breathing until Hardy was out of sight. Then he sprang to his feet and high-tailed it to the stolen vehicle he had hidden down the road. As he ran through the trees, he heard an engine start up and knew he had to hurry if he was going to follow Hardy.

Ten minutes later, Predator wiped the sweat from his brow and focused on the road. He pondered his good luck. The whole damn day had been an experience in good luck. Robbing Jolene. Ditching her and her car in the river. Hitching a ride into Healy. Stealing a car and finding his way to Boxberger's trailer.

Now Predator was trailing Hardy. Yeah, it had been a damn good day.

# # # #

The table was set. The salad was made. All Nancy and Vanessa needed was Joe. It would be nice to have Frank there, too. Vanessa crossed her fingers and said a silent prayer. A little extra help from a higher power couldn't hurt. She took a pain pill to quell the ache in her knees and eased onto the sofa. Bulka was asleep on the rug, snoring softly. Vanessa smiled at the dog. It was comforting to have a dog – a big dog – in the house.

What Vanessa did not find quite so comforting was Nancy and Joe's stakeout plans. Of course, Vanessa found no comfort in this whole investigation, especially now that Frank had been kidnapped. There she said it. Kidnapped. That was the brutal, honest truth. Vanessa's heart ached for Nancy and Joe. She had seen Joe's anger earlier. Anger that he used to mask his concern for his brother.

Vanessa peered at Nancy and Frank's bedroom door. Nancy was in there gathering her gear and changing into dark clothes. She had told Vanessa she wanted to be ready to leave as soon as Joe got home. Vanessa understood the motivation. Nancy felt better if she was doing something productive in regards to the investigation. To that end, Nancy had spent the past hour on her computer searching for information on someone. Vanessa surmised it was the person who's name Nancy had written on her notepad.

Try as she might, Vanessa could not persuade Nancy to share the name. Instead, Nan had insisted it was probably a wild goose chase. "Honestly, Van, I just need something to take my mind off of Frank. Even for a little while. If I don't have something to divert my attention, I'll go crazy."

Vanessa had said she understood. She would feel the same way if she was in Nancy's shoes.

Vanessa's phone rang and she nearly jumped out of her skin. She drew in a breath and calmed herself. This investigation and Frank's kidnapping had her on edge. Oh, and the man who had attacked her. Nancy fretted about Frank. Well, Vanessa fretted about the crazy man.

Vanessa answered her phone.

"Hey babe, it's Joe. I'm in the parking lot of the convenience store. I just got a call from Detective Ziegler. He's wondering if you'd be willing to come to the police station now and take a look at the sketches of the man who attacked Miss Brown this morning."

"Those are ready?" Vanessa asked. She also noted the fatigue in Joe's voice.

"Yeah. Miss Brown had no trouble describing the man. Ziegler wants to get the sketches on the six o'clock news and if you ID the man, then he can add that two women have been attacked by this man. So, what do you say? I can be home in ten minutes and take you to the station. I'll also need to get gas on our way home."

"Hold on, Nancy's here. Let me explain things to her." Vanessa relayed the information to Nancy and then told Joe, "Nancy says she can drive me to the police station. I'll get there quicker and it'll save you a trip."

"I don't mind taking you, Van. It's not that far out of my way."

"But it _is_ out of the way," Vanessa said. "Nancy and I can get to the station, view the sketches, and be home shortly after you."

"Okay," Joe said, the fatigue in his voice growing heavier. "I haven't bought the sandwiches yet so, that's another thing I need to do. I'll see you at the house."

Vanessa blew Joe a kiss through the phone. "See you soon, babe."

Vanessa ended the call. She had an active part in the investigation, well, in the part that concerned the crazy man, and she was thrilled.

# # # #

Joe arrived at the rental house at five-forty-five. Bulka greeted him at the door, tail wagging. Her nose quickly honed in on the bag of sandwiches.

"None of these are for you, girl. Sorry." Joe toed the door shut and carried the sandwiches to the kitchen. Bulka followed, right on his heels.

Joe laid the bag of sandwiches on the counter, filled a glass with water, and drank it down in one long chug. He set the glass on the counter, sighed, and felt an overwhelming weariness settle into his bones. Best not think too much about how tired he was. He wasn't going to rest until he found Frank.

His phone binged and he looked at the screen. A text from Vanessa. She and Nancy were going to be gone longer than expected. Detective Ziegler wanted a statement from Vanessa. Joe nodded to himself. That made sense. Ziegler was doing his job, getting another witness statement. Joe texted back, _See you when you get here. I'm taking a shower. Love you._

Joe was toweling off when the phone rang. The home phone which was odd. Who would be calling the rental house at six-fifteen in the evening? Joe wrapped the towel around his waist and stepped into the bedroom. Bulka was on the bed, head up and ears alert. She looked at Joe as if to say, _You hear that?_

The phone was on the bedside table and still ringing. It was quite annoying. Joe toyed with the idea of picking up the receiver and slamming it down. That would silence the phone, but it wouldn't tell him who was calling. Might be a wrong number and they would probably call back. But wouldn't a wrong number have given up by now?

Joe snatched up the receiver. "Hello."

A familiar voice said, "About time."

Boxberger.

"What took you so long to answer?" The cockiness in Boxberger's tone made Joe want to hit him.

"I thought you were a wrong number," Joe said.

Boxberger laughed and Joe wanted to reach right through the receiver and wrap his hands around that thick neck.

"Listen," Boxberger said, "you're getting close. Too close for comfort. How 'bout we make a deal, something that'll benefit both of us."

Joe lowered himself and sat on the edge of the bed. The towel split open, exposing a knee and heavily muscled thigh. "I'm not in the business of making deals. I'm in the business of finding criminals and bringing them to justice. You're a criminal and I'm bound and determined to bring you to justice. Have I made myself clear?"

"Crystal. But you're not as smart as you think you are. I believe we can work together for the greater good. There's a lot more to those dead hobos than you realize. There's a lot of things you're not aware of. Care for me to elaborate?"

"Please do."

A nasty, superior chuckle filled Joe's ear and he wanted to choke the living daylights out of Boxberger.

"Let's talk, man to man. Tonight," Boxberger said.

"Works for me, but first I want to know where my brother is. I know you have him so don't bother denying it."

That irritating laugh again. "Okay, no denials from me. I have your brother. He's safe and sound."

"Let me talk to him."

"I'd like to, really I would, but he can't talk right now. He's, um, what's the saying? He's a little tied up at the moment, if you catch my drift."

"If you've hurt him.." The cords in Joe's neck stood out.

"Oh, please. It's not your brother I'm interested in. It's you. And by the way, your brother came peacefully. Didn't even put up a fight. Wasn't exactly his night. Course, three against one may have been a bit unfair."

"Three armed men against one," Joe corrected, his anger rising.

"Better to go in big I always say." Joe heard the smile in Boxberger's voice. "I like a sure thing, Hardy. Saves time in the long run. You ready to meet and talk or are we gonna yak on the phone all night?"

Joe got the feeling Boxberger was dangling a carrot in front of him and getting ready to sit back and watch Joe chase it. To his own detriment of course. Realistically, Joe had no choice. He had to do as Boxberger asked.

Joe played the only card he had. "I'll warn you, I'm not coming _just_ to talk."

An outright belly laugh this time from Boxberger. "Damn, Hardy, now you're talking. How 'bout we talk first though? I'll tell you everything I know and then we can go _mano a mano_."

"Sounds good to me." Choking the life out of Boxberger was going to be the crowning glory of the night, in Joe's mind at least.

Bulka came up, laid her head on Joe's knee, and he scratched behind her ear.

"You bringing the dog?" Boxberger asked.

Joe's hand stopped in mid-scratch and his stomach tightened. Why had Boxberger asked about the dog?

"Thinking about," Joe said and ruffled the fur on Bulka's head.

"Good. You're gonna need somebody with you. Now, here's where we're going to meet." Boxberger gave Joe directions. Joe saw his notepad and pen on the bed and hurriedly wrote the directions down.

"You got all that?" Boxberger asked.

"I got it. In one hour at .."

The phone went dead in Joe's hand. He glared at the receiver for a second and then hung it up. Bulka canted her head and eyed Joe quizzically.

"You want to know what's going on?" Joe pushed off the bed. "Me too. Guess we'll find out tonight. This could get dangerous. You up for a dangerous mission?"

Bulka stood, wagged her tail, and barked. Her happy bark.

Joe adjusted his towel and smiled down at her. "Good, so am I. We don't have much time to get ready. Oh, and by the way, I think this is going to be a long night."

Bulka gave an enthusiastic bark and wagged her tail.

Joe smiled down at the dog. "That's my girl. Always ready for a little adventure."

* * *

 _A/N: Thank you all for the reviews. So glad people are enjoying this story. :D_


	39. Chapter 39

Chapter 39

Joe lifted the M4 rifle. It was nice and solid in his hands which was comforting and reassuring. A person needed that kind of reassurance, especially when they were contemplating doing something spectacularly stupid. It was stupid to meet with Boxberger at a location of his choosing. It gave all the advantages to Boxberger and none, absolutely none, to Joe. It was doubly stupid to go without Nancy as backup. She had a gun and knew how to use it. Well, Bulka would be with him. Although she didn't have a gun, she did have a vicious set of teeth. Maybe that would be enough.

Joe looked down at Bulka, sitting patiently at his feet. Her eyes met his and she whined. _What's up, boss? We going or not?_

"We're going," he said and slipped more ammo into his jacket pockets. Never hurt to have extra.

His Beretta was in his shoulder holster, locked and loaded, and with a full magazine. A survival knife was secure in a sheath on his right calf. Seemed he was ready. Well, as ready as he could be given he had no idea what he was walking into.

# # # #

Predator drove slowly toward the rental house. This would be his third drive by. He couldn't risk another. Night had fallen and Predator's eyes had adjusted to the dark. Still, there was no cover on this street. No trees or big bushes to hide behind. No place to park a stolen car. On this street, people parked in their driveways or garages, not on the street.

With one hand on the steering wheel and the other stroking his chin, Predator mulled over what he knew. Hardy had come home to a dark and empty house. No other vehicle had been in the driveway and no other vehicle had arrived at the house. Was Hardy staying here alone? In order to answer that question, Predator needed to do surveillance and surveillance was going to be next to impossible given the lack of hiding places. However, the cover of darkness would serve Predator's purposes. He would park the stolen car a fourth a mile down the street and walk back. Sneak up to the house, maybe go around to the back and peek in a window.

He needed to get rid of the stolen car anyway. Just leave it somewhere. The police were looking for it … _and_ him. He'd listened to the radio. Jolene had been rescued. His first piece of bad luck today. And a police sketch of the suspect was going to be on the six o'clock news. His second piece of bad luck. Predator had no doubt the sketch would be good likeness of him. Jolene had gotten a good look at him in the diner.

Yeah, he had to ditch the car and change his appearance. Get rid of the Army jacket and beanie cap. Those had been mentioned on the radio. Hell, his height, built, and hair color had all been mentioned. All accurate, too.

He was coming up to the rental house and, finally, luck was with him. The front door opened. Predator slowed, hoping for a glimpse of Hardy, but no one came through the door. Damn. Predator drove on. Hardy had probably seen the car slowing down and gotten spooked.

Predator reached up, adjusted the rearview mirror, and watched the house. Hardy came out of the front door, and if Predator wasn't mistaken, that was a rifle slung over Hardy's shoulder. Where the hell was he going with that? And with a dog. Looked like a police dog.

Well, hell, Hardy was full of surprises.

Predator kept driving down the street, passing nice houses sitting on large lots. He eyed the gas gage. It was getting down. Predator didn't have enough gas to follow Hardy to wherever he was going with that rifle. Damn. Another piece of bad luck. Predator decided he would ditch the car a fourth a mile down the street, as planned, and walk back to the house. No one was home so, he could investigate to his heart's content.

Predator kept driving, a grin lifting the corners of his mouth.

# # # #

Joe followed Boxberger's directions. Not too tough. Joe was outside the Healy city limits and headed to a five acre piece of property owned by Kyle Nicholson. Joe had done a little research before he had just driven off into the night. He'd hauled out Vanessa's printouts, the ones she had printed for him days ago, and there, among Nicholson's various properties, was the one Joe sought. What was on that property and why Boxberger chose it as a meeting place was unknown.

Joe slowed the SUV. Up ahead was a turnoff, a dirt road, with no signpost. Joe hung a right. The SUV's headlights lit the ground and Joe could see faint tire tracks in the dirt, a sure sign he was on the right road.

A few more yards and the headlights lit up an old wooden shack. It had a covered porch and a wooden railing. The whole place looked ready to collapse. Joe parked the SUV in front of the shack and scanned the surrounding woods through the windows. This would be a great place for an ambush. Not for the first time, Joe wondered, _Did Boxberger really want to talk?_ Joe's instinct told him, no, this was a trap _._

Bulka whined in the back, reminding Joe they were here to find Frank.

"You're right," Joe said to the dog. "Time to get moving."

Joe turned off the vehicle and the headlights. A gibbous moon sailed high in the clear night sky and lit the shack in a soft white light. The porch, though, was a cavernous black rectangle. Joe grabbed his rifle off the back seat. It felt good in his hands. Really good. Nothing like a little firepower to calm the nerves. He got out of the SUV, his head on a swivel, eyes scanning the woods. Not a soul around. Not a vehicle in sight. Where the hell was Boxberger?

Joe let Bulka out of the vehicle and felt a whole lot better. Her eyes and ears were superior to his. She would hear or smell someone coming long before he did. He scanned the woods and shack again. His skin was starting to crawl and he was getting anxious. He stood there, next to the SUV, wondering what he should do next. Bulka sat at his feet. Waiting was not Joe's strong suit, especially not when he was waiting for someone he wanted to hit with a crowbar. If Boxberger was going to meet him, wouldn't he be here already?

Logical answer was, _Why, yes, he would_.

"Let's go," Joe whispered to Bulka.

He fell into Army mode, held his rifle ready to shot to kill as he and Bulka crept up the porch steps. The shack had one way in and one way out, the front door which looked ready to fall off its' hinges. Joe kept his rifle leveled on the door and turned his head slightly to search the woods yet again. He couldn't see a thing. Too dark out there. The SUV provided cover. Anyone aiming a gun at him wouldn't have a direct shot. They'd have to shoot through the SUV to get to him.

Bulka was sniffing at the doorframe and acting excited. Had she detected Frank's scent?

Okay, Joe thought, he and Bulka were going in. They'd do it the Army. Go in big.

Joe nudged Bulka aside and put her on a down. She sank onto the wooden porch, but kept her head up, eyes focused on the door, and ears pricked up at attention.

Joe stepped back, lifted his right leg, and smashed the heel of his boot into the door a few inches from the knob. The door crumbled upon impact, disintegrating into splintered pieces of wood.

Joe snapped his rifle to the ready position and his eyes swept the interior. The interior was a black box. Joe moved up to the doorframe and used it as a shield. Boxberger could be hiding in one of the shack's corners where the shadows were the darkest. He could be aiming a gun at Joe and Joe wouldn't even know it. Bulka, lying on the porch, whimpered nervously. Not a good sign. A thread of worry trickled down Joe's spine.

He pressed his shoulder against the doorframe, aimed his rifle into the room, and yelled into the darkness, "Boxberger?"

A brief moment of silence and then, "Hardy. What took you so long?"

Joe held his anger in check. "Where are you? I thought we were going to meet and talk."

"I'm here, Hardy. Been waiting for you. I see you brought the dog."

Joe rolled off the doorframe and peered into the black void. Finally, he spotted a tiny red dot high up in the left corner. That damn Boxberger. Here's where some of those cameras from the snake house had ended up. Joe cursed himself. Should've known. "Let me talk to my brother."

Boxberger chuckled. He sounded thoroughly delighted and why shouldn't he? Things were going his way. He was somewhere safe and sound while Joe was here, out in the weeds at an abandoned shack. "You're close to him, Hardy. Come on in. Have a look around."

Now that sounded like a bad idea for a whole host of reasons, not the least of which was, it was too damn dark to see anything. Bulka whimpered her agreement.

This was taking too long. Joe was ready to plant a bullet in Boxberger's gut. If only Boxberger was here in person. A growl worked its way up Joe's throat. "Just tell me where my brother is and if you've hurt him in any way, and I mean in _any_ way, you're going to pay. You hear me? You're going to pay in blood. _Your_ blood."

"Oh, I hear, ya. And I wouldn't want it any other way. Now, if you really want your brother, you're going to have to come inside. Like I said before, your brother's a little tied up. He can't exactly come to you."

Joe cursed himself again. He'd gone about this search and rescue mission all wrong. Going off on his own, alone, was stupid. He should have called Nancy. Should have had her following him. Having her as backup right now would feel real good.

There was a bit of good news. His eyes had adjusted to the near black conditions and he could see the floor of the shack, the area near the door where the moon lit it up. All he saw was dust, dirt, splintered wood, and rotted floorboards. There didn't appear to be any traps or things to trip over. Wouldn't want to sprain his ankle just before he found Frank or met the Grim Reaper. Both scenarios being equally possible.

"Walk to the center of the room." Boxberger sounded like he was getting impatient.

Joe had a ton of misgivings about this shack and what awaited inside. One overriding thought pushed him on, he had to find Frank. Joe lowered his rifle, held it one handed, index finger on the trigger, and dug a penlight out of his pocket. He stepped over the shattered pieces of door and inside. A sense of foreboding washed over him and he cursed himself yet again. This was becoming a bad habit – the cursing.

"Center of the room," Boxberger prompted.

Joe switched on the penlight and played the beam over the rough floorboards. There was something black on the floor in the center of the room. Joe looked over his shoulder at the doorway. Bulka whimpered and growled, low and soft. The fur on her back bristled. She didn't like this shack and, more telling, she wasn't following him inside. Her head was barely past the doorframe.

"Center of the room," Boxberger reminded Joe.

Joe shook with anger and snarled, "I'm gettin' there." He wasn't budging an inch until he had a good look around. He swept the beam of the penlight over the room. The light moved along the walls and crawled into the corners. Nothing. Just wooden floors and wooden walls. No windows. Hell of a place with an awful musty smell.

"You ready yet, Hardy?" A note of exasperation in Boxberger's voice.

Joe shined the penlight on the black thing in the center of the floor. It was a thick loop of rope.

"There, you found it," Boxberger said with cruel satisfaction. "That's where your brother is. Below that trapdoor. Go on. Open it up."

Yeah, right. Joe leaned and yelled at the floor, "Frank? Frank, are you down there?"

Joe waited, sweat forming on his brow. He got down on one knee, laid his penlight on the floor, and yelled at the trapdoor again, louder, "Frank? It's Joe."

Joe waited, holding his rifle and his breath. Finally, a muffled sound .. a voice .. Frank's. "Joe. Joe, I'm here." Frank sounded hoarse and weak.

"There," Boxberger said. "Just like I said .."

Joe lifted his rifle and stitched a three round burst across the camera. Watched it explode in a shower of sparks. That shut Boxberger up. Joe turned his attention to the trapdoor. "I'm coming to get you, bro."

Joe laid his rifle on the floor, grabbed the rope handle, and yanked hard. He folded the door over on the floor. He didn't need the penlight. Bright lights flashed on in the underground cavity, illuminating it. Joe saw Frank sitting on the ground, his back against the earthen wall. Frank appeared haggard, cold, and tired. He had no shoes and no shirt and was bound at the ankles and wrists.

"I'm coming down," Joe said.

"Water," Frank croaked out.

"Got it." Joe dashed to the SUV, his boots thudding on the wooden porch. Bulka scampered down the porch steps after him and stopped. Standing erect and alert at the foot of the steps, she glanced from Joe to the shack and back, clearly curious as to what was going on.

Joe grabbed a bottle of water out of the SUV and rushed back to the shack. Bulka scampered after him, but stopped at the doorway. She still wasn't going in.

Joe tucked the water bottle in his jacket and got down on all fours at the edge of the opening in the floor. The opening was three feet wide by four feet long. Joe tried to approximate the depth of the cavity. Getting in the hole was no problem. Getting out of it could be.

Frank lifted weary eyes to his brother. "You get the water?"

"It's in my jacket." Joe patted his jacket. "Do you see a way out down there? A door?"

Frank looked around, squinting in the intense light. Hours ago, he had removed the blindfold by rubbing his head against the wall. He hadn't been able to see a thing then, even without the blindfold. Now, he saw where he had been kept. A damp hole in the ground.

"No doors. No way out down here," Frank rasped and frowned. He did see one thing that was unusual. "One of the walls down here is metal. What do you make of that?"

"No clue," Joe said. "I'm coming down." He dropped into the hole and rushed to his brother's side. Gathered Frank in a quick embrace and rubbed his back and arms to warm him up. "How you doing, bro?"

"Cold. Thirsty. Hungry. How long have I been gone?"

Joe unsheathed his survival knife and cut through the zip-ties on Frank's ankles and wrists. "Seven or eight hours."

Frank rubbed his sore wrists. "How'd you find me?"

Joe unzipped his jacket, pulled out the water bottle, and handed it to a shivering Frank. "Boxberger called and gave me directions. I drove straight here."

Frank sipped the water and gave Joe a wary look. "That can't be good. There's gotta be a reason Boxberger would want us both here."

"Agreed," Joe said and scanned the cavity. He saw the metal wall. Definitely not normal. Not something that should be in an underground chamber. Neither should the bright lights strung on a track in the ceiling. Joe shrugged off his jacket. "Here, put my jacket on. It'll warm you up."

"Thanks."

Joe helped Frank stand and get the jacket on. "Better?" Joe asked once Frank had the jacket zipped up.

"Yeah." Frank looked at his bare feet. "Wish I had my boots."

"It's not far to your SUV," Joe said. "It's right outside the shack. We just have to get out of this hole." Joe looked up at the opening and reached his hands toward it. Yep, about six inches out of reach. Maybe he could jump, grab onto the edge.

"How you boys doing down there?" Boxberger's disembodied voice boomed loud and sharp in the cavity.

Joe spun and stared at the metal wall. Damn, another camera. It had slid out of a small concealed hole in the wall. Joe cursed himself, he had left his rifle above ground.

"Now that we're all here, it's time for a little fun. You boys ready for some fun?" The delight in Boxberger's voice made Joe want to punch him in the face. The fact Joe had only himself to blame for his current situation only made the desire greater.

Joe withdrew the Beretta out of his shoulder holster and aimed it at the camera. "I thought we were going to talk, Boxberger. You and me. You were going to enlighten me about those dead hobos."

Boxberger chuckled. "Hell, Hardy. You believed that?"

Joe's finger tightened on the trigger. He was tired of playing games. Hell, he was just plain tired. "Maybe. Call me naïve. I thought there might be a possibility that you were going to do the right thing. Come clean and confess. Guess I was wrong. So, tell me, what's the point of getting my brother and me here?" Joe was positive he would regret asking that question.

"Nicholson doesn't like anyone messing around in his backyard. You two have made yourselves a pain. A thorn in his side. You been digging into things that don't concern you and have nothing to do with Dan Sagget or his murder."

"Really? You know who killed Sagget?"

"Haven't a clue."

Joe frowned, totally confused. "How 'bout those hobos, you know who killed them?"

"I might."

"Who?" Joe still had his Beretta aimed dead-center on the camera.

"I think you already know the answer to that question."

"Colonel Charles," Frank said, stepping up beside Joe.

"Bingo. You got the correct answer on the first try." The smile in Boxberger's voice was palpable.

Joe lowered his gun. "Why'd the Colonel kill them?"

"Now why do you think?" Joe could feel Boxberger's sneer.

Frank said, "Because they knew too much. I'm guessing they were hired to help you and Nicholson move illegal goods in and out of the docks."

"Bravo, big brother Hardy. Correct again. The Colonel was always antsy after we paid the men. He was afraid one of them would go into town, get drunk, and shoot his mouth off. Tell some barkeep all about what was happening at the docks. The Colonel knew we couldn't have that and figured he'd nip things in the bud. The Colonel doesn't believe in taking chances or sitting back and waiting to see what happens. Nope, his motto is, take care of things before an accident can happened."

"You mean murder people," Joe growled, and before he could stop himself, added, "Frank and I will be at Detective Ziegler's office first thing tomorrow morning telling him all of this. You know that, right?"

Boxberger gave a short, dismissive grunt. "Hardy, you are woefully ignorant or stunningly dumb. I wouldn't be telling you any of this if I thought you were leaving this shack. You and big brother aren't going to be seeing anyone tomorrow or any day hereafter."

Joe and Frank shot each other concerned frowns and then stared up at the camera.

Boxberger gave them the bad news. "Neither of you are leaving that hole tonight or any other night."

Joe glanced at the opening in the ceiling. He wanted out of this hole and now. Five minutes ago would be even better. The wheels in his head started spinning. If he stood on Frank's back ..

"Now," Boxberger said, "I have other matters to deal with. But don't worry, I'm not leaving you guys all alone down there. I thought a little company might be nice. Consider it a parting gift." And then he laughed. A nasty, slimy laugh that twisted Joe's stomach into knots.

A soft sound, like grain coming down a silo chute, began to fill the air. Joe and Frank turned their heads and saw another hole in the metal wall. A large hole and an enormous snake head protruded from it, its tongue flickering.

"Holy .." Joe backed up, bumped into the earthen wall, and swallowed hard.

"The python," Frank hissed, backing away. He, like Joe, remembered seeing the twenty-five foot snake at the snake house.

The python slid further out of the hole, tongue flickering, tasting the air, sensing for prey. The body slithered out and seemed small given the size of the head, but then as more body emerged, it swelled and grew thicker. The room, by comparison, grew smaller. Twelve feet by twelve feet wasn't enough space for two men and a huge snake. The snake's smell came next, a mixture of jungle and something hideously primitive.

Joe aimed his gun at the python. "Look, Boxberger. I'll shoot the damn thing. How will Nicholson feel about that?" Joe reasoned that Nicholson collected snakes because he was fascinated by them. Prized them. A python this size had to be expensive. Joe didn't think Nicholson would want this snake randomly killed.

"I'm not sure it'll attack you," Boxberger said. "It's the other two snakes I'd be worried about if I were you."

Frank squeezed Joe's forearm. They both knew what the other two snakes would be. _Rattlers._ How many had Joe shot when they were at the snake house? Four?

Joe shook off Frank's hand and took aim at the python. "I'm shooting this snake now."

"Only if you can see it," Boxberger said and the overhead lights winked out.

Joe and Frank were plunged into blackness. Joe cursed for the umpteenth time that night. He'd left his penlight above ground, along with his rifle.

Frank squeezed Joe's forearm again. There was that sound again. The flowing grain sound. The sound of death.

# # # #

At seven p.m. Nancy and Vanessa arrived at the rental house. They found the house lights on and Frank's SUV gone.

Nancy turned her car off, looked around the outside of the house, and said, "That's odd. It appears that Joe's not here."

Both women exited the car, handbags slung over shoulders. Nancy hurried to the front door and unlocked it. Once inside, the women headed straight for the kitchen. There, they found the sandwiches lying on the counter still in their wrappers.

Nancy laid her keys and handbag on the dining table, a worried frown creasing her forehead. "Bulka's not here either. She would have greeted us the moment we came through the door. Van, what time was it when you and Joe texted each other?"

Vanessa took her phone out of her handbag and checked. "Five-fifty-five. Joe said he was going to take a shower."

"Well," Nancy said, "let's see if he did." Nancy headed for Vanessa and Joe's bedroom, Vanessa hot on her heels.

Nancy switched on the light and scanned the room. "Do you see anything out of place," she asked Vanessa.

Vanessa walked into the room, taking in its general disarray. Nothing unusual about that, not with Joe around. The room looked exactly as she had left it. Joe's notepads and a pen lay on the bedspread. Joe's suitcase was open on the floor. However, Vanessa did notice that Joe's boots and jacket were missing and pointed this out to Nancy.

"Check the bathroom," Nancy said. "See if one of the towels is damp."

Vanessa hurried into the bathroom and soon called out, "Yes, one of the towels is damp. He must've taken a shower like he said."

Vanessa returned to the bedroom and found Nancy holding Joe's small notepad and examining it closely.

Hopeful, Vanessa asked, "Did Joe leave a note?"

"No." Nancy's face was grim. "But he did write something down. I'm .. I'm trying to make out what he wrote." Nancy's head snapped up. "I need a pencil." Her handbag. She had a pencil in it. Nancy dashed to the kitchen, Vanessa right behind her.

Vanessa put the sandwiches in the refrigerator while Nancy rubbed the pencil across the notepad, bringing the writing to life.

"Any luck?" Vanessa asked, cautiously optimistic.

Nancy studied the writing for a second and then said, "Yes, it's a list of directions."

"Directions?" Vanessa was clearly confused.

"Road directions," Nancy explained. She drifted off, stared into the distance thinking, who would call and give Joe directions at night? And why would he immediately follow them without calling her or Vanessa?

Vanessa's voice broke into Nancy's thoughts. "Who would have given Joe directions at this time of night?"

Nancy turned to her friend. "I was just asking myself the same thing and the only names that came to mind are, Nicholson and Boxberger."

"The men who have probably kidnapped Frank."

"Yes." Nancy nodded and then snapped her fingers. "And the only reason Joe would follow these directions without telling you and me, is if he thought he was going to find Frank."

Vanessa was horrified. "He could be walking into a trap."

"Yes," Nancy said, deadly serious. "Most likely he has. I need to follow these directions and, hopefully, find Joe _and_ Frank before it's too late."

Vanessa squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. "You mean, _we_ have follow those directions. You're not going alone and I'm not staying here alone. Both of our fiancés are missing. We go together or we don't go at all. We're in this together."

Nancy felt a small weight lift from her shoulders and grinned. "You're absolutely right. We are in this together. And honestly, I didn't really want to go alone. Come on, we need to hurry."

* * *

 _A/N: Thank you everyone for the reviews. I'm sure some of you are not happy with the chapter ending here. Sorry, I will try to post the next chapter soon!_


	40. Chapter 40

Chapter 40

Joe was frantic, trying to spot the rattlers in the dark. He'd heard them plop on the ground and now they were rattling. Rattling with an unnerving intensity. Joe aimed his gun at the sound. He and Frank were pressed up against the earthen wall like they wanted to melt into it.

Frank elbowed his brother and said, "Cell phone."

Joe frowned. "Huh?"

"Your phone," Frank demanded. "It has a flashlight app. Please tell me you have your phone."

Joe ripped it off the holster on his belt and placed it in Frank's groping hand. "Here, light this place up."

Frank powered on the iPhone. He knew Joe's passcode and Joe knew his. Info that came in handy in situations like these.

Frank turned on the flashlight app and shined the light on the ground. He moved the beam in an arc, looking for the rattlers. The python wasn't hard to spot. It took up most of the floor space and was coiled in a gigantic loop. Its head and forebody were up and its black tongue was flickering. It, too, was distracted by the rattlers. Or curious. Or anxious.

Boxberger's voice cut through the tension like a knife, "Wish I could stay and watch the fun, but gotta go. Don't worry, I'm recording the whole thing for Nicholson."

Joe rotated, centered the camera in his crosshairs, and shoot it. A double tap. Metal bits of camera flew across the room and embedded themselves in the earthen wall with precise thuds.

Frank and Joe instinctively ducked, throwing their arms over their heads.

"Dammit, Joe!" Frank scolded. "One of us could've been hit and killed by a flying piece of metal."

"Sorry," Joe said, contrite. He'd acted on impulse and had to stop doing that. Impulse and rash actions weren't going to get them out of this predicament.

The noise from the shots had been incredibly loud in the small space and now, the snakes were agitated. In particular, the rattlers. Their rattles buzzed like an angry beehive. The sound was ominous, foreshadowing eminent doom. And, dammit, Frank had dropped the phone. Joe couldn't see a thing.

"Light up the snakes, for God's sakes," Joe growled between gritted teeth.

Frank ran his hands over the ground, found the phone, and picked it up. The bright beam lit the area in front of Joe. Frank and Joe gasped. The beady, black eyes of a coiled rattler stared straight into Joe's. The rattler resembled a cobra ready to strike.

Without thinking, Joe brought his gun up and fired. A chunk of the snake's neck blew off along with a spray of blood. The snake's forebody dropped on the ground with a sodden thump and for a second, Joe watched in horrified fascination as the whole snake twisted and writhed, tying itself into knots. Finally, he fired another round and put the snake out of its misery.

Joe sensed something looming to his left. To his right, Frank nudged him, and swung the phone so that it illuminated the area to Joe's left. Not three feet away was the python, sliding toward them. Joe fired at the head that was rising off the ground and missed. How in the hell had he missed? This snake was three times the size of the rattler. Then he realized how badly his hands were shaking.

Frank swung the phone's beam in a big, sweeping arc, hunting for the other rattler. Joe wanted to smack Frank upside the head. Couldn't his brother focus on one snake at a time?

Before Joe could yell at Frank something leathery and heavy whacked the side of his head. The freaking python! The damn thing had lunged at him, and worse, the snake's neck had slid alongside Joe's for a single horrifying second before withdrawing. Joe jerked to the left before the snake could strike again and wondered if the snake was attracted to the light. Joe heard that ominous sliding sound and knew the python was coming for him again. _Why him?_

"Rattler," Frank said, voice strained.

Joe's attention was immediately diverted from the python.

Frank held the iPhone out, spotlighting the timber rattler. Good thing, too. It was slithering straight for the brothers, forked tongue tasting the air.

Joe had to make a choice. Shoot the rattler or shoot the python? Logic said the rattler was the greater threat. One bite and he, or Frank, was dead. No way would they be able to get out of this hole and to a hospital in time for anti-venom.

Joe took aim. The rattler was closing fast. Joe steadied his hands and arms. He couldn't miss this time, had to kill the rattler on the first shot. Joe drew in a shallow breath, held it, and fired. It was a beautiful shot. Messy, but beautiful. The snake's head exploded like a bomb had gone off inside it.

Frank slumped back against the wall and audibly exhaled. "Thank God."

Joe did not share Frank's relief. Out of the corner of his eye, Joe saw the python, its body shifting sideways. Joe turned his head just as two huge coils of the trunk-like body lifted off the ground. The damn thing was going to throw a hundred pounds of muscle at him.

Joe fired twice, aiming at the body. He was sure he hit it once, maybe twice. The coils collapsed on the ground, but the head came up – way up – as the massive beast reacted to being hurt. Joe, and Frank, rolled to the right, tumbling over each other and then scrambled to their feet. They scurried to a corner, hearts beating a hundred miles an hour.

Frank shined the phone's light in the directions of the python. The light was weak, the phone's battery was fading. "Dammit," Frank hissed.

"It's not dead," Joe whispered, meaning the python. "Hear that?"

Frank calmed his breathing and listened hard. He heard sliding sounds … and a prolonged hiss.

"It's close," Joe whispered, readying his gun.

"And it's wounded," Frank said, stating the obvious. "We've got a two hundred pound, pissed off snake on our hands."

Joe drew a breath between clenched teeth. "Thanks. Like I don't know that already."

The phone's light winked out and Joe cursed under his breath. Of all the things that could go wrong this had to be the worst. Well, maybe there were worse things, but none came to mind.

Frank powered off the phone, started to say something, but never got the chance. The python attacked. The monster lunged forward and Joe cried out in pain as the snake's teeth sank into his left arm above the elbow. Joe brought his right hand up and over and slammed the butt of the gun into the snake's head. Big mistake. The snake clamped down harder and Joe thought his arm would snap in two.

The snake reeked. Blood and guts oozed out of it somewhere further down the body. One of Joe's shots had hit it. Unfortunately, Joe knew the snake wasn't going to bleed out before it killed him. No, Joe had to kill it first.

The python threw a coil over Joe and wrapped it around his waist. The coil tightened and Joe gasped. Frank fumbled with the phone, got the light to work and was stunned by what he saw. He tossed the phone on the ground, grabbed hold of the python's body, and tried, desperately, to unwrap the snake. It was a futile effort. The python was slick with blood and guts and much too strong.

Joe was yanked to the ground where he and the python rolled into a jumbled ball. The python tried throwing another coil over Joe and he did his best to prevent it.

Frank saw Joe's knife attached to his calf and reached for it. Frank got it just before Joe was jerked into the shadows.

Joe struggled to breathe. The python was slowly squeezing him to death. Joe's right arm was free and he still had his gun in his right hand. If he could shoot the python in the head this would be over. The python wasn't making it easy though, not with all the rolling around.

The python rolled Joe onto his left side and he felt his ribs compress. The python was determined to kill him. Joe sucked in a shallow breath and pressed the muzzle of his gun against the python's head. He considered the angle – didn't want to shoot his arm – adjusted the aim slightly, and fired. The python's grip tightened and Joe saw black dots. He moved the muzzle and fired again. The damn snake – now in the throes of death – kept constricting. Joe fought for air. Couldn't get any. Not a speck. A black cloud formed at the edges of his vision. The cloud came for him fast, growing thicker, wrapping him in a cloak of darkness. The gun fell from his hand as he slipped into the black void.

Frank scooped the gun off the ground and shot the python four times. Shot until the bullets were gone, until the beast lay motionless. Frank's heart beat hard, his ears rang from the gunshots, and his adrenaline was sky high. He rolled the python and Joe over. Untangled his brother. Had to get Joe out of those enormous, heavy coils. Sweat dripped from Frank's forehead and he grunted with the effort. Next, Frank had to face the python's damaged head. Frank pried the hideous thing off of Joe's arm. Quelled his revulsion at the task. He saw up close and personal, just how long the python's teeth were.

At last, Joe was free. Frank put an ear to Joe's mouth. Dammit, Joe wasn't breathing. Frank placed two fingers on Joe's neck, feeling for a pulse. There was one, a very weak one. Frank tilted Joe's head back, pinched his brother's nose shut, and blew into Joe's mouth. In the faint light from the phone, Frank saw Joe's chest rise. There was hope.

# # # #

Bulka poked her head inside the doorway. Joe had been gone a long time and the shack had gone quiet. Quiet was not always a good sign. Not when there had been gunshots earlier. Bulka did not like gunfire. The sound of gunfire took her back to the before time. To the time when she worked with soldiers in a place that had funny smells. Fear lived in that place. It was a dangerous place just like this old wooden house.

Bulka and Joe – and Wayne – had gone into a lot of old wooden houses in that faraway place. It seemed bad things always happened in those houses. Bulka remembered men shouting and women crying. Many times a gunfight erupted. Just like here.

Bulka stuck a paw beyond the doorframe and laid it gingerly on the ground. She brought her head up, opened her mouth slightly, and drew in the scents. Joe's scent was strong. Frank's scent was faint and elusive. There was another scent, one that lifted the fur on Bulka's neck and back. It was the scent of a deadly animal, an animal Bulka was not familiar with, but she knew danger when she smelled it.

A sound outside drew Bulka's attention. She backed out of the house and slunk along the wooden porch, staying close to the wall. She got to the end of the porch and peered through the railing in the direction of the sound. This sound she knew well. It was a car engine. Someone was coming.

Bulka trotted to the stairs and down them. The engine was very close now. Bulka hide by the front tire of the SUV. Her Army training had kicked in. She was ready to attack, ready to protect Joe and Frank with her life.

The car came to a stop behind the SUV and the doors flew open. On each side of the car, a woman jumped out. Bulka ran to the woman with the long, pale blonde hair and barked at her. This woman loved Joe as much as Bulka did. Bulka was overjoyed to see the two women. She barked and led the women up the stairs to the ramshackle house.

# # # #

Joe could breathe. Frank was over him, shaking him and saying his name. Joe pushed his brother back with his right forearm. "I can hear you, bro … Back off … I'm okay."

Frank plopped on the ground and sat beside his brother. "Thank God. You weren't breathing there for a while, Joe. You had me worried."

Joe struggled to a sitting position with Frank's help. The snake bite throbbed like it was alive. Joe snuck in a breath between bolts of pain.

Frank glanced at Joe's arm. He couldn't see much in the dim light. "We need to get you to a hospital."

Frank's voice was calm, but Joe sensed Frank's concern. Hell, Joe was concerned. His left arm hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. It was wet and sticky. Covered in _his_ blood and _snake_ blood. All that blood all mixed together. That couldn't be good.

"Yeah," Joe said, "probably not a bad idea. Help me up."

"Frank! Joe!"

Frank and Joe leaned their heads back and looked up at the hole in the ceiling. Nancy and Vanessa were there, shining flashlights down into the brothers' faces. Frank and Joe shielded their eyes with a hand.

"Nancy," Frank called up, a smile in his voice, "how did you find us?"

"I followed Joe's directions. The ones he left on the notepad on his bed."

"I took those directions with me," Joe protested. His arm was throbbing and he really wanted to get the hell out of the hole. A part of him said, thank God Nancy had found the directions.

"Yes," Nancy said, "you did take the directions, but I could still read them." She explained how she had used a pencil to raise the words.

Frank got to his feet and helped Joe up. "Clever idea, Nan," Frank said. "You didn't happen to bring a ladder with you, did you?"

"Oh my God!" The words burst out of Vanessa's mouth. "Is that .. is that a python?"

"A dead one," Frank said forcing a cheerful tone which was completely incongruous given the situation.

Vanessa's eyes widened as she took in the scene below. Her flashlight illuminated all the carnage. Dead snakes and bloody men. "Frank, you're .. you're all bloody. And you, too, Joe."

Joe debated if he should tell Vanessa about the snake bite. He settled on, "Van, we're alive. Let's concentrate on that and getting us out of here."

Nancy touched Vanessa's jacketed arm. "Let's look outside for a ladder or some long tree branches. Something to help the guys out of this hole." Nancy leaned over the edge of the hole and said, "Frank, Joe, we'll be back in a minute."

Nancy and Vanessa searched around the outside of the shack. The beams of their flashlights swept the walls and ground. Bulka bounded along at their heels, happy to have the women here. She had also heard Joe's and Frank's voices. They were alive and all was right with the world. Well, Bulka's world. All her people were alive.

In the hole, Frank used the iPhone light and examined Joe's arm. Blood oozed freely from large, gaping holes. Too freely. "I need to bandage your arm," Frank said.

Joe guessed that was a good idea. Maybe he should take a look at his arm. Ugh. He wished he hadn't looked. Two large holes on top with blood flowing out of them. Joe figured there were two more holes on the underside of his arm, blood flowing freely out of them. No wonder he was a bloody mess.

"Your shirt," Frank said, "I can use it as a tourniquet and bandage."

Frank helped Joe out of his t-shirt being extra careful of Joe's painfully swollen arm. Once the shirt was off, Frank took Joe's survival knife and cut the shirt into strips. Joe sat on the ground and quietly let Frank tend to the wound. Frank admired Joe's grit. His brother didn't complain once. Didn't shown any sign of the tremendous pain he was in. Joe clenched his teeth, sat stoically, and stood the pain as Frank bandaged the arm and tied the strips tight to stanch the blood. Frank was tying the last strip when Vanessa reappeared at the opening in the ceiling.

"We didn't find a ladder," she called down, "but Nancy thinks the porch railing could work as a substitute. We're going to try and wrest some of it loose."

Vanessa disappeared and Joe nudged Frank. "Climb on my back. I can boost you up and out of here. You can help the girls."

Frank shook his head. "I don't want to chance hurting your arm. We'll give the girls time to get the railing free. If they can't, then you can boost me up. Not that I want to be down here any longer than necessary, because I don't. I've been down here – what did you say? Seven or eight hours?"

"Something like that." Joe gently leaned his bare back against the earthen wall. The wall was cold and felt good against his swollen arm.

Two bursts of semi-automatic gunfire sounded above. "That's my rifle." Joe eyed the ceiling and the opening.

A slight grin broke the corners' of Frank's mouth. "I suspect Nancy's using it to get the railing loose."

Sure enough, a few minutes later, Nancy and Vanessa reappeared at the opening. The men moved out of the way as the women lowered the rickety railing into the hole.

Once the railing was propped against the wall, Frank tested the rungs. He stepped lightly on the bottom one and it broke beneath his foot. Well, that wasn't good. He turned to Joe. "Maybe you should boost me out of here and you can use the railing. If you can get part way up, the girls and I can pull you the rest of the way out of the hole."

Joe nodded. "Yeah, let's do that."

Frank looked up at Nancy and Vanessa. "That sound good to everyone."

The women nodded agreement.

Joe got down on his knees and one hand. He kept the injured arm close to his chest. The bandage was wet and warm against his skin.

Frank used the railing for support and stepped on to Joe's back. Joe slowly rose, groaning through the pain and effort. Frank got an arm on the rim of the hole and a foot on a sturdy rung. Nancy grabbed a belt loop on his jeans and held tight. Frank pulled himself out of the hole and rolled onto the floor. He lay on his back spread-eagle, panting. He felt the splintered remains of the front door.

Nancy stroked his arm. "You okay?"

"Yeah, give me a minute to catch my breath then we'll get Joe out."

Nancy leaned down and kissed Frank full on the lips. "It's good to see you again."

Frank smiled. "It's good to see you again."

"Anytime now," Joe called from the hole.

Frank rolled onto all fours. "Coming, bro."

It was a struggle. Several rungs shattered beneath his weight, but through sheer brute strength and force of will, Joe got himself close to the top of the hole. Frank got an arm around Joe's back. Nancy got a grip on his belt and Vanessa worked the flashlights as everyone grunted and pulled.

Finally, Joe lay on the wooden floor, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His heart beat hard, up in his throat like it wanted to jump out of him. Sparks of white hot pain charged up his injured arm and radiated across his chest. Joe wasn't fond of hospitals, but right now, a hospital sounded like a good place to be.

The group loaded up into vehicles. Frank, Bulka, and Nancy in Frank's SUV. Nancy drove and Frank drank water. He was incredibly thirsty .. and hungry. He was wrapped in a blanket he kept in the back for emergencies. Nancy had the heat on, warming his cold feet.

Vanessa drove Nancy's vehicle. Joe was slumped in the passenger's seat cradling his arm, trying not to move it. Going over the rutted dirt road had almost killed him. Now they were on the highway and the ride was smooth.

"Warm enough?" Vanessa asked her eyes sliding over to check on Joe.

Joe nodded and closed his eyes. He didn't want any more questions. There would be plenty of them at the hospital and tomorrow when he met with Detective Ziegler. Joe debated whether he should call Ziegler tonight. Nah, Joe didn't have the energy. But he was grateful for Vanessa. She had been great. Hadn't complained or admonished him. She had wrapped him in a blanket, tucked him in the car, and handed him a bottled water. Then she'd hopped in the driver's seat and drove, anxious to get him to the hospital.

She had asked him how he hurt his arm. He told her and she took it stride. Oh, there had been a cringe and a horrified expression. Perfectly understandable.

"I'm sorry," Joe said breaking the silence.

"Sorry?" Vanessa gave Joe a sidelong glance. "Sorry for what? Getting bit?"

Joe stared out the window, into the night, avoiding eye contact. "No, for going off on my own tonight. I should've called you and Nancy and told you where I was going. I should've had Nancy as backup."

Vanessa concentrated on the road. This was big for Joe, admitting he'd made a mistake. "It all worked out," Vanessa finally said. "Nancy found your note with the directions and we were able to follow them. I wish we'd gotten there sooner. Maybe if we had …"

"Yeah," Joe said softly when Vanessa didn't continue. Maybe if they had, or if he'd had backup. Maybe he would not have been bitten. Life was full of choices, split-second decisions. Sometimes, you made a good choice. Sometimes, you didn't.

# # # #

Nurse Susan Geer had worked at Healy General Hospital for ten years. She didn't mind the night shift. It was kind of pleasant. Healy was a small town and the ER didn't see much action. Oh, there was the occasional car accident or a seriously ill child – usually during flu season – but for the most part, Healy General's ER stayed relatively quiet. This Thursday night promised to be as quiet as all the others. Well, until Nurse Owen, another ten year veteran of Healy General, wheeled in a new patient.

Susan looked up from her computer screen and across the counter. She openly stared at the bare chested man in the wheelchair. Her nose wrinkled in disgust. The man stunk and Susan saw why. The bright hospital lights illuminated it all. The makeshift bandage on the man's left arm was red and damp with fresh blood. Dried blood and what looked like pieces of skin or innards were splattered on the patient's chest, face, and pants. Good Lord.

Owen smiled at Susan and said, "Doctor Reiner's gonna love this one. Snake bite."

Susan frowned at Owen. "Snake bite?"

Owen's grin stretched from ear to ear. "Python. You don't see that every day. Or night as the case may be."

Owen laughed and Susan gave him a stern look. A little more professionalism from Owen would be nice. Susan came around the counter, nodded a greeting at the tall blonde woman standing next to the wheelchair, and took the patient's admitting form from Owen.

Susan glanced at the form and absorbed the pertinent information. Thirty year-old male in good physical condition. She could see that by the muscular chest and arm. That bloody, bandaged arm worried her though. The patient, Joseph Hardy, had to be in pain and he was covered in blood. Infection was a real concern.

"Owen," Susan said, "take Mr. Hardy to the patient shower and get him cleaned up. Unwrap that arm, too. Give it a good dose of antiseptic. I'll tell Doctor Reiner he's got a patient."

"Yes, ma'am."

Owen wheeled Joe away and Susan turned to the blonde woman. "Ma'am, you can have a seat right over there. Once we put your .. your .."

"Fiancé," Vanessa said. "He's my fiancé."

Susan gave Vanessa a kind smile. "Okay, once we have your fiancé in an exam room, I'll take you to him. We have to get him cleaned up before we can do anything about that arm."

Vanessa nodded that she understood.

Susan saw the worry crinkling the corners of Vanessa's eyes. "If you don't mind my asking, how did your fiancé get bit by a python?"

Vanessa's mind flashed to the scene in the hole. She thought of the events of the night, of all the things that had happened. She shook her head sadly and said, "That's a long story."

Susan had assumed it would be. "I'm going to tell Doctor Reiner he has a patient, but when I come back you can tell me the story. We've got time. Oh, and if you'd like a cup of coffee there's a coffee center in the waiting area."

Vanessa thanked the nurse and headed to the waiting area. She was the only one there. She sat in a corner and called Nancy, told her Joe was being seen and yes, he would definitely need clean clothes. Everything he had worn into the ER was going in the trash. She shuddered at the very thought of what was on those clothes. Not a single thing was returning to the house.

Nancy laughed and said she had already thrown Frank's pants in the trash and Joe's jacket (which Frank had been wearing), would likely wind up in the trash, too.

"If it looks like Joe's pants it certainly will," Vanessa said forcefully.

"Frank's taking a shower," Nancy said. "I'll grab some clothes for Joe and when Frank's finished in the shower we'll be on our way. Hang in there, Van."

"I'm trying," Vanessa said and disconnected.

She reminded herself of the positives. Joe was alive. He was safe and receiving medical care. With any luck at all, this case would be over soon. Joe had told her in the car what Boxberger had said, that Colonel Charles was responsible for the hobos' murders. Hopefully, that confession would lead to his arrest and more confessions. Vanessa thought it possible that Colonel Charles had also murdered Dan Sagget and Dolores Gage. The man certainly had no qualms about killing people, even people he had befriended. Given enough money, Vanessa imagined he would murder anyone.

# # # #

Predator crept down the street and away from the rental house. He had been coming out of the backyard – there really should be a lock on that gate – when the SUV had pulled into the driveway. Predator had hid in the shadows until the couple in the vehicle were in the house. They had the dog with them. The dog had been with Joe Hardy when he left in the SUV.

Predator puzzled over that as he worked his way back to the stolen car. Same dog. Same vehicle. Different people in the vehicle and no Joe Hardy. But Predator had recognized the blonde woman. She worked in the detective agency in River Heights and she had shot at him. Predator wouldn't mind taking a shot at her. Pity he didn't have a gun. He'd stuck around the house for fifteen minutes waiting to see if Hardy showed up. He didn't, so Predator proceeded on.

As Predator walked back to the stolen car a plan formed in his mind. It was an evil plan. Vicious and savage. Predator had changed. He'd felt something inside come loose when he'd kidnapped Jolene. He'd made a break with humanity. It was weird and kind of disturbing. He was someone new, a different person, and this person was out for the kill. He wanted to do harm.

Predator had known when he zapped Jolene with the stun gun that he had no intention of letting her live. She had. Just dumb luck on her part.

The next person Predator encountered wasn't going to live. He would make sure of that.


	41. Chapter 41

Chapter 41

Vanessa pulled into the driveway of the rental house, parked next to Frank's SUV, and turned off the engine. Nancy and Frank were already inside the rental house. They had beat Vanessa and Joe home by ten minutes. They had left the porchlight on. The rental house beckoned. It said, come on in and relax. Vanessa wanted to do just that. She was exhausted. Emotionally spent. For a day that had started out fine, it had gone downhill fast and had ended rather horribly.

The days' events flashed through Vanessa's mind. Frank kidnapped. A woman abducted, stuffed in the trunk of her car, and the car driven into the river.

Fortunately, Frank was now home and in relatively good condition. The woman had been rescued, but Joe … Well, Joe had suffered a severe wound. Eight stitches held the four holes in his left arm shut. Two stitches for each hole. The doctor had been optimistic – cheerful even – and said Joe had suffered no serious damage to his arm. That was good news. Something Vanessa and everyone needed right now.

Vanessa glanced over at the passenger's seat. Joe had fallen asleep on the ride home from the hospital. He was slumped in his seat, head resting against the window, his left arm wrapped like a mummy and encased in a sling. He wore the clothes Frank had brought to the ER. Clothes easy to slip on. Sweatpants, flip-flops, and a zippered sweat jacket. The jacket was unzipped and only the right arm was in a sleeve.

Vanessa woke Joe with a gentle touch on his thigh. "Joe, we're home."

He stirred, blinked, and looked out the windshield. "So, we are." He stretched a bit and said, "I'm hungry."

Vanessa had to smile. Nothing seemed to quash Joe's appetite. "Come on," she said. "I'm sure Nancy and Frank have the salad and sandwiches out of the fridge by now."

# # # #

Bulka patrolled the backyard then ate, drank some water, and returned to the house. She curled up on the big rug in the living room and gnawed on her chew bone.

Joe, Vanessa, Frank, and Nancy sat at the dining table eating the sandwiches and salad. Everyone was hungry. Supper was long overdue. Between bites, the men shared brief comments about their ordeal in the snake pit. It was a horrifying tale. Not one that went with well with a meal. The group finished their meal and now, each person was lost in their thoughts. If they had the energy for thoughts. It had been a grueling day.

At last, Nancy spoke. She directed her comments at Joe and Frank. "Don't you think we should phone Detective Ziegler and let him know what happened tonight?"

Joe answered, "It can wait until morning. I'm too tired to give a coherent statement tonight. I can't even think straight right now and I don't want to spend two hours in the police station being grilled by Ziegler."

Frank laid down his napkin and eyed Nancy affectionately. "I'm wiped out, too, hon. All I want is a good night's sleep. Joe and I will see Ziegler first thing in the morning."

Nancy remained serious. "If I've interpreted the facts correctly, Deke Boxberger tried to kill you and Joe tonight. That needs to be reported to the police."

"He tried and failed," Joe corrected her. "Going to the police tonight won't change that. In the big picture, it's all comes down to our word against Boxberger's. We have no evidence he was at the shack. I doubt he left fingerprints or incriminating evidence there."

"If he did," Frank said, "it's now covered in snake blood and body parts."

Joe's upper lip curled in disgust at the image Frank's words painted. "True," Joe said and turned to Nancy. He waited for her gaze to meet his. "I say, let Ziegler get a good night's sleep tonight. I have a feeling he's going to need it. After he hears Frank's and my story tomorrow, the rest of the week's going to be hell for him."

Frank nodded agreement. His eyes locked onto Nancy and resolve hardened his expression. "He'll be arresting Boxberger. I saw Boxberger's face and the men who were with him when they kidnapped me. They didn't wear masks. I can ID all of them. Boxberger even admitted to Joe and me tonight that Colonel Charles killed the hobos because of illegal activities at the docks."

Nancy frowned at Frank. "Isn't that another reason to phone Ziegler tonight?"

Both Frank and Joe shook their heads. It was clear to Nancy that the brothers were not inclined to phone anyone tonight. She tried a different approach. "There's another fact you two might want to consider. After Joe shot out the camera in the snake pit, Boxberger has no way of knowing if you and Joe are in fact dead. He'll have to go to the shack and check. He might be doing that now or already has and now knows you are alive and gone. He could be packing and preparing to leave town as we speak. Aren't you worried about that, about him getting away?"

"No," Joe said rather abruptly then softened his tone. "Okay, Nan. Everything you just said could very well be true. Probably is true. You're right, Boxberger will want to know what happened in the shack. He wouldn't have put cameras in there if he didn't to watch and make sure things ended, um, ended the way he planned. So, yeah, he'll have to go to the shack and see for himself what happened. But," Joe paused for a beat, "but I don't think he'll run. Boxberger's not a runner, he's a fighter. And this – this feud between him and me – it's personal. We have a score to settle with each other. I want to pound him into the ground for putting that crazy savage on my tail. That man wound up following Vanessa and hurt her. Then he hurt another woman. I'm not letting Boxberger get away with that and he knows it. Just like he's not going to let me get away with digging into what's been going on at the docks and the shipping container graveyard. Frank and I have uncovered all, well, most of Boxberger's and Nicholson's secrets."

Nancy leaned back and folded her arms across her chest. "You can't be positive that Boxberger won't run."

Joe narrowed his eyes at her. "I can and I am. Trust me on this, it's a guy thing and, like I said, it's personal."

Nancy turned to Frank for his opinion. "What do you think?"

"Joe's right," Frank said much to Nancy's dismay. "Boxberger's not running. Not until he gets another crack at Joe and me. We won round one. I'm sure that doesn't sit well with him. I'd say there's going to be a round two."

Vanessa sat quietly and listened. A cold thread made its way into her thoughts. She did not like knowing that Boxberger was still out, still free to do more harm. "Excuse me," she said and all eyes turned to her. "Once Boxberger finds out that Frank and Joe are not in the shack and are not dead, won't he come here?" Her voice rose an octave. She thought of how Boxberger had taken Frank from the house early the morning without a sound. "He could come tonight," she insisted. "With a gun. While we're sleeping."

Joe saw that Vanessa was truly worried about this possibility. He wanted to relieve some of that worry. He took Vanessa's hand in his good right hand and caressed the back of her hand with his thumb. "I don't think he'll show up here. He knows Frank and I have rifles and handguns and we know how to use them. He knows we'll take precautions tonight. Also, he has to ask himself, did we call the police? Will there be officers staked out around this house waiting for him to show up?"

Vanessa visibly relaxed. "I hadn't thought of that."

Joe squeezed her hand. "Boxberger's smart. He doesn't want a confrontation with the police and you know what? Nancy might be right. He might pack up and leave town for a while. I don't think he'll go far and I don't think he'll leave for good. He's too tied up with Nicholson and whatever illegal operation they're running at the docks. Hell, Boxberger and Nicholson might be huddled together this very minute figuring out their next move." Joe shrugged. "One thing's for sure. Boxberger has to come up with a new plan, a new way to get Frank and me alone. He wants us alone so he can toy with us before he delivers the final blow. It's more fun that way."

Vanessa involuntarily shuddered and felt the goosebumps form on her arms. However, she did feel better knowing it was unlikely Boxberger would show up tonight. She focused her thoughts on that. She could worry about Boxberger tomorrow. Given how long today had been, tomorrow seemed an incredibly long way's away.

The hour was late. After eleven p.m. The group of four cleared the table, washed what few dishes there were, and headed to their rooms.

Vanessa disappeared into the bathroom and washed her hands and face. Joe sat on the end of the bed and struggled to put on a pair of socks. Damn. Doing things one handed was difficult. Finally, he gave up and threw the socks on the carpet. He removed the sling and wiggled his fingers. That slight movement send sparks of pain charging up his arm. Okay, no more wiggling the fingers on his left hand.

Vanessa came back into the bedroom and changed into a flannel pajama top. Joe sat on the bed and watched in envy. Having two hands made a huge difference.

Vanessa spun and saw Joe sitting on the bed not moving, still dressed in his sweatpants and t-shirt. "Joe, is something wrong?"

Joe tilted his head toward his bandaged arm and shrugged. He looked so helpless Vanessa almost laughed. She took him by the hand and pulled him off the bed.

"I'm sorry, babe. I hadn't thought of how hard it would be for you to undress. Here, let me help you." She stepped back and looked at him. "Do you want the t-shirt on or off?"

"On," Joe said. He remembered how hard it had been to work the shirt sleeve over the bandage. No need to go through that again.

"Okay, what about the pants," Vanessa said. "On or off?"

"Off," Joe said.

Vanessa stepped up close and slipped her fingers beneath the waistband of the sweatpants. Joe swallowed hard. His throat was suddenly tight. Vanessa's fingers were soft and warm against his skin. Her touch was setting off all kinds of reactions.

Vanessa pushed the sweatpants down, over Joe's hips. He sucked in a breath. A heat started building in the lower regions and he knew there was no turning back. Not with the way Vanessa's hands felt sliding the sweatpants down his legs.

He stepped out of the pants and waited for Vanessa to stand. Then he put his hand on the small of her back, brought her gently up against him, and that's where all thinking ended. Well, thinking with the higher brain. The lower brain was doing just fine. He guided Vanessa to the bed vaguely aware of Bulka's soft snoring. Thank God, she had opted to sleep in her doggy bed tonight.

# # # #

Deke Boxberger drove his red truck down the road to his house. Dark silhouettes of trees flashed by on his right. Housed flashed by on the left. The moon sailed high in the night sky. Deke was in a hurry to get home. Not that getting home was going to solve his problem, because it wasn't.

Damn, and he had a big problem. Actually, two big problems. Joe and Frank Hardy. They had escaped. Gotten out of the hole. Gotten away from the snakes. They'd killed all the damn creatures, too. Deke had shone his big flashlight in the hole and had seen the carnage. It had looked like an effing war zone down there. Deke wasn't a snake lover, so no great loss there. But Nicholson was going to be sorely disappointed. No, he was going to be pissed. Beyond pissed.

Damn! Deke hit the steering wheel with a fist. All the work he and Travis and that tech kid from the office had put into setting up those cameras had gone up in flames. All those hobos he'd paid to move the effing snakes to the shack. All that effort was wasted. Deke hit the steering wheel again. None of this was going to sit well with Nicholson. Hell, none of it sat well with Deke.

His house came into view and he slowed the truck. Damn, he needed a beer. He needed to think, to figure out another way to get Joe and Frank Hardy. God, he had to make them pay.

Deke turned into his driveway and parked. Got out of the truck and slammed the door. He ran a hand through his hair and down his face. Let his heartrate calm down a bit. Shook his head to clear away the anger. Time for some hard thinking and planning. He had to have a plan before he told Nicholson about this latest debacle. Damn, this was not going to sit well with Nicholson.

Deke went to the back door, slid in the key, and opened the door. He flipped on the light and like a heavy fog lifting, his kitchen and small dining room table came into view. As he shut the door it took a second to register what he saw. The rogue Marine, sitting pretty as you please, at Deke's dining room table.

"You?" Deke's voice was a harsh whisper. His mind raced with a million questions. He asked only one of them. "How'd you get in here?"

Predator smiled and Deke saw the evil intent in the man's eyes. "I came to ask for a favor," Predator said. The smile was gone, but the evil in his eyes remained. Maybe even grew.

Deke was going to say, _you got a lot of nerve_ , but knew he would only be wasting his breath. The rogue Marine wasn't here for a favor. Nope. There was something very wrong with this Marine. Something crazy was bouncing around between this man's ears.

Predator pushed back from the table and an icy warning knifed into Deke's neck, right at the base of his skull. Predator bolted out of the chair and Deke glimpsed the Ka-bar knife clutched in the man's meaty hand, the blade gleaming in the overhead light.

Deke reached for the handgun tucked in the waistband of his jeans at the small of his back. Dammit! No time! Deke grabbed one of the metal dining chairs and shoved it in the crazy Marine's way. That slowed the Marine for a second. One precious second. Deke went for the handgun again as the Marine leaped at him. Deke lashed out with his left hand, stepped into the motion with all his weight, hoping to knock the knife out of the Marine's hand. All the while, Deke's right hand was clawing for his handgun.

But Predator was prepared and fast. He dodged Deke's blocking move. Then stepped in and thrust the knife into Deke's gut in a vicious underhand jab. Real quick. Real smooth.

Pain exploded in Deke's stomach as four inches of a seven inch knife pierced his skin and his intestines. The knife went in cold and hard. Real quick. Real smooth.

Predator jerked the knife free and stepped back.

Deke's hands went to the wound. Hot blood poured out, coating his hands, turning them red. Deke felt his body sag and caught himself on the table. Planted both hands on the table top and willed himself to stay standing. Warm blood ran down his jeans. His gun. Go for the gun …

Predator stepped in and drove the knife into Deke's hip. Deke's cried out and his knees buckled. He sank to the floor, gasping. The room was fading, receding …

Predator bent down and felt in Deke's pockets. His jacket and jeans. He was rough and every movement brought fresh pain to Deke's wounded body.

Predator found Deke's truck keys and held them up to the light, up where Deke could see them. "There, that's what I wanted." Predator smiled down at Deke and leaned in close like a lover. He whispered into Deke's ear, "That and to kill you. Nothing personal though."

Deke heard his back door open and close. He lay on the floor, blood pooling around his waist and hips. His blood. He looked up at the ceiling light, stared into it and thought, _it's nothing personal though_.

* * *

 _A/N: Sorry for the long delay. I've been enjoying the spring weather and haven't felt like writing. Shame on me! But I did get my flower garden planted. :)_

 _Thanks so much for all the lovely reviews on the last chapter._


	42. Chapter 42

Chapter 42

Detective Ziegler's phone buzzed at one-thirty a.m., shaking him from what he had hoped was going to be a full night's sleep. Those had been rare as of late. A good night's sleep was becoming infrequent and therefore, much desired. Any interruption provoked an urge to strangle the person so callus as to interrupt.

Ziegler yanked his phone off the bedside table and growled his name. The desk sergeant at the station seemed unperturbed. He said there was a _situation_ out on Timberline Road and that the uniforms who had responded were requesting a detective.

Ziegler tossed off the covers and hauled himself out of bed. The last time there had been a _situation_ requiring a detective it had involved a woman trapped in the trunk of a car. The tone of the desk sergeant's voice told Ziegler the current _situation_ was just as serious.

Ziegler's wife stirred. "What's up, babe? Did I hear your phone?"

"Yeah, you did." Ziegler reached in the closet for his pants and shirt. "Something's come up. I have to go."

"Not another murder, I hope," his wife muttered sleepily.

Ziegler slipped on his pants and zipped them. "Me, too. The desk sergeant said it was urgent." Ziegler walked around the bed to his wife's side, brushed back her hair, and kissed her. "Go back to sleep. I'll text you when I know more. Kiss the kids in the morning for me."

His wife held his hand a moment longer and looked at him with an expression that touched his heart. "I will. Be careful out there, baby. I love you."

"I love you, too." And he truly did.

An hour later, Ziegler was standing in Deke Boxberger's kitchen, the coppery scent of blood filling his nose. Boxberger was in the hospital fighting for his life. Sergeant Ashby, the first officer on the scene, had filled Ziegler in on what he knew so far. Boxberger had been stabbed twice and lost a lot of blood. Ziegler could attest to that as an enormous amount covered the kitchen floor.

Now, who would want to attack Deke Boxberger? Ziegler had no doubts the man had enemies. Working for, and with, Kyle Nicholson practically guaranteed it.

Ziegler squatted and took a closer look. Bloody footprints tracked in and out of the house. Most from the EMTs. The crime scene brought to mind two other crime scenes, those of Dan Sagget and Dolores Gage. This crime was just as brutal as those. However, unlike the Sagget and Gage murders, Boxberger's attacker had not left a weapon behind and it had not been an ax. According to the EMTs, Boxberger's attacker had used a knife.

Ziegler pushed to his feet and scanned the kitchen counters looking for a knife. He pulled on latex gloves and went through the kitchen cupboards and drawers. He found two steak knives and a butcher knife. They appeared clean, dry, and undisturbed. He looked in the sink and ran a gloved finger over the steel surface. Not wet. The attacker had not rinsed a knife here.

Ziegler spun on his heel and peered at the back door. Maybe at an outside spigot? He shrugged, worth a look. As he moved toward the door, he examined the floor closely. Ah, there, that was what he was looking. Blood drops. Big ones. Ones that had dripped off the tip of a very large knife. Now he was getting somewhere.

The blood drops were mixed in with the footprints. Some were smeared. The drops led Ziegler outside. He stood on a small cement porch. The porch light lit up the cement and the driveway. Sergeant Ashby stood beside his patrol car, strobe lights flashing, talking with Travis Holt, the man who had found Boxberger bleeding out on his kitchen floor. Holt had placed the 9-1-1 call.

Ziegler's focus returned to the blood drops. Two more trailed down the cement steps. Ziegler went to his vehicle and retrieved a flashlight.

Sergeant Ashby hustled over to him. "Detective." Ashby waited for Ziegler to shut his car door and turn around. "Mr. Holt wants to know if he can go to the hospital and see his buddy."

Ziegler held his flashlight in his hand, his thumb resting on the on/off button. He squinted over Ashby's shoulder and peered at Travis Holt. Holt raked a shaky hand over damp eyes. The man was shattered. Perhaps in shock. But questioning him – and Ziegler had a lot of questions – was going to have to wait. The blood drops came first.

Ziegler shook his head mildly at Sergeant Ashby. "Not yet. Holt's going to have to cool his heels a bit longer."

"He's pretty torn up about his buddy," Ashby said and Ziegler heard the empathy in the sergeant's voice. "They were in the Marines together. Did combat duty in Afghanistan."

Ziegler paused a second like he was seriously considering letting Holt go to the hospital, then said, "Tell Holt I'll get to him shortly."

Ziegler switched on the flashlight and headed for the small porch and those blood drops.

# # # #

Four-thirty Friday morning and Nancy couldn't sleep. Joe's notes, the name she had written on her notepad, and the whole snake pit drama kept spiraling through her head. Images of those dead snakes and Frank's and Joe's bloodied bodies would be with her for quite a while. Those very images meant sleep was now out of the question.

Nancy rolled out of bed, tugged on her robe, slipped her feet into slippers, and trudged into the kitchen. Maybe some hot chocolate and another look at Joe's notes – her notes, too – would calm her mind or at least, refocus it. Laying out all the data might help her synthesize all of it into a cohesive whole. She often equated investigating a case as akin to an archaeological dig. Bits and pieces of the past were slowly uncovered layer by layer. The pace was often frustratingly slow, but moving too fast could result in missed clues. Had there been missed clues in this case?

Nancy gathered the notebooks and notepads from the living room coffee table (where she had put them when she, Frank, Joe, and Vanessa had eaten a belated dinner) and laid them on the dining table. Next, she poured milk into a pan, set it on the stove, and turned the burner to low. In a few minutes she would have a nice, hot cup of cocoa. She heard a sound behind her and spun, her hand coming up in a defensive gesture.

"Joe? What are you doing up?" Her tone was slightly accusatory, mainly due to her surprise.

Joe was dressed in a t-shirt and sweatpants. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you, Nan." He lifted his bandaged arm. It was snug in its sling. "My arm hurts. The pain woke me. Couldn't get back to sleep. I saw the light on and came out here." He held up a bottle of pills in his right hand. "Could you open this for me, please?"

"Of course." Nancy's voice was sympathetic. She flashed Joe an understanding smile.

Joe sank onto a chair at the dining table. The unrelenting pain furrowed his brow.

Nancy opened the bottle. "How many pills do you want?"

"Two."

Nancy shook two pills out of the bottle and handed them to Joe. She filled a glass of water at the sink and placed it (and the pill bottle) on the table in front of him. "I'm making hot chocolate. Would you like some?"

"Yeah, that'd be great. Thanks."

Nancy opened the cupboard and took out two mugs. Joe swallowed his pills and washed them down with the water.

Nancy arranged items on the counter. Two hot cocoa packets, spoons, and a bag of large marshmallows. Then she checked the milk. It had started to boil. She turned off the burner and glanced at Joe. "Almost ready."

Joe nodded absently. He had noticed his notebooks and notepad laying on the table. Another notepad lay beside them. Joe flipped it open and was greeted by Nancy's neat, precise handwriting. Joe pondered the notepad while Nancy made the hot chocolate. A minute later a cup of steaming hot chocolate, topped with a melting marshmallow, was placed in front of him. Before he could ask, Nancy laid a spoon beside the mug.

"The spoon helps with the marshmallow," she said with a conspiratorial smile and sat across the table from Joe with her own mug and spoon.

Joe pulled his mug closer and let the heat warm his hand. The hot chocolate was too hot to drink, but the marshmallow was at just the right stage of melty, gooey goodness. He spooned some into his mouth and sighed contentedly. Nancy did the same and they chuckled quietly at each other. It felt good to laugh and share a lighthearted moment with a close friend.

Nancy stirred the remains of her marshmallow into her hot chocolate. Joe spooned more marshmallow into his mouth and savored the rich sweetness. The two friends, and business partners, sat silently for a minute enjoying the peace and quiet of the cozy kitchen-slash-dining room. Quiet moments like this were magical and not meant to be rushed.

Joe lifted his mug and took a tentative sip. The warmth felt good going down his throat. The heat spread to his chest and warmed him. He set the mug on the table and looked at Nancy. "So, why are you up at," he glanced at the clock on the wall, "at five in the morning?"

Nancy licked her spoon and pointed it at the notebooks and notepads. "I wanted to go over your notes and mine again. I have some ideas about Wayne Banyan's case." She lifted her chin and her intense blue eyes met Joe's. "This case is like a ball of yarn. You pull on a thread and it starts to unravel, but not in the way you expect."

Joe snorted softly. "Ain't that the truth?" He jutted his chin at her notepad. "So, tell me some of your ideas?"

"Well," Nancy said, drawing out the word, "I was wondering, what if you and Frank have been pulling on the wrong thread?"

Joe's eyes narrowed as he contemplated the question. "You mean like maybe Nicholson's not the guy we should be focusing on?"

Nancy grinned and her deep blue eyes seemed to glow. "That's exactly what I mean. Didn't you say that Dan Sagget and Dolores Gage's murders were personal? Very personal. You said whoever killed them might have harbored a grudge against them for years."

Joe nodded and sipped his hot chocolate. "I did say that and I still believe that."

Nancy flipped through several pages in her notepad until she got to the one where she had written down a name and underlined it. She turned the notepad around and pushed it across the table so Joe could read the name. "What are your thoughts on this person?"

Joe frowned at the name. The name, and the person, had tumbled through his mind more than once. Joe brought his head up and his gaze sharpened on Nancy. "We need to interview this person." Joe realized, with a grimace, that he had gotten so wrapped up with Boxberger, that damn container graveyard, and what had happened to Vanessa that he had let his interviews lapse. He'd essentially strayed from the original case: who had killed Dan Sagget and why.

Nancy picked up her mug and blew on the steaming liquid. "I agree, we need to interview this person. That's why I called Peggy MacDonald yesterday afternoon and arranged to meet her and Connie Marshall this morning at nine."

Joe leaned back in his chair and ran a hand over his stubbly chin. "I've interviewed Connie Marshall two or three times," he said. "Not sure what you expect to get out of her." He made interviewing Connie Marshall sound like a waste of time.

Nancy sipped her hot chocolate and considered her response. Finally, she said, "I'm interested in the family. Connie is six years older than her brother Wayne. She knows more about the family dynamics twenty years ago then he does."

"The past and her family are not subjects Connie likes to talk about," Joe warned. "Plus, she told me she wasn't around much back then. She was sixteen, had a job, had a boyfriend, and spent as much time away from home as possible."

Nancy nodded. "I get that, but I haven't met Connie. And now that I'm part of this investigation I'd like to meet her and get a feel for what she's like. I plan to start by asking how she's doing." Nancy paused and snapped her fingers. "You know, having Vanessa there might be the perfect way to break the ice. Vanessa can relate to Connie and the attack she went through. Vanessa can share her recent experience with Connie. That might be the perfect way to get Connie to open up to us."

Joe's expression turned sour like he'd eaten something bitter. "I'm not so sure about that. About involving Vanessa. Hasn't she been through enough all ready? You'd just be making her relive her ordeal."

Nancy understood Joe's protective nature toward Vanessa. It came from deep in his heart. He loved Vanessa with every fiber of his being, fiercely and loyally. That fierceness and loyalty also extended to his protectiveness. Those he loved were just as passionately protected by him. Nancy admitted to herself that Joe's desire to protect Vanessa was not misguided. Vanessa had experienced her fair share of traumatic experiences both in her past (with an abusive husband) and since meeting Joe.

Nancy cast Joe a slightly offended look. "I would never ask Vanessa to do something she wasn't completely comfortable with. I'll talk to her this morning when she gets up and see what she thinks. It's Vanessa's decision whether she wants to join me or not in interviewing Connie Marshall."

Joe did not appear entirely pleased, but relented. "Okay, fair enough." He drank some of his hot chocolate and steered the conversation back to more compatible waters. "I'm sure Connie will appreciate your visit and I'd like to know how she's doing. Now that you've brought this up, I feel bad. Frank and I told Peggy MacDonald we'd check on Connie and we haven't. It's been like three days since she was attacked and we haven't called her once." A stab of guilt pricked Joe's chest. He and Frank had let Connie and her welfare fall by the wayside.

Nancy sensed Joe's guilt and said, "You've been busy chasing down leads and now, you're hurt, too. I'll make sure Connie knows that you and Frank are still very concerned about her and her welfare."

"I'd appreciate that." Joe appeared somewhat relieved then switched topics. "So, you're interested in the family dynamics from twenty years ago? Care to explain that?"

Nancy lowered her head, lifted her mug with both hands, and took a long drink of her chocolate. Joe wondered if this was a diversionary tactic.

Nancy set the mug on the table and said, "I don't want to say too much yet. I may be chasing shadows. My hope is to pry loose a piece of information, something from the past that can explain the present. I feel like we're missing one key piece to this whole case. If we can find that piece, the rest of the case will make sense. Connie – without knowing it – may hold that piece in her hand. In other words, she may have some small piece of information that will lead us in the right direction, or to the right person."

Joe shrugged, noncommittal. "You might be right."

Nancy stared past Joe and smiled. "Looks like we have company."

Joe turned and saw Bulka padding toward them. "Hey, girl."

Bulka head butted Joe's thigh and peered up at him with sleepy, questioning eyes.

"You want to know why we're up at this ungodly hour, don't you?" Joe smiled at the dog and ran a hand over her head. "Good question." Joe checked the clock on the wall – five-fifteen – and looked at Nancy. "I'm going to let Bulka out for a pee break and then hit the rack."

"How's your arm?" Nancy asked.

"Pain's almost gone." The pain medicine was starting to kick in. The pain in his arm had subsided to a bearable throb.

"Good. That'll help you sleep. I'm going to stay up a little longer and go through our notes."

Joe cocked his head. "Don't stay up too long. Sleep is important, too."

"Ten more minutes," Nancy promised.

Joe picked up his mug and drained it. He placed the mug in the sink and as he passed Nancy on his way to the living room, said, "Thanks for the hot chocolate."

"Anytime. I'm glad we had a chance to talk." Nancy smiled at Joe.

"Me, too."

Joe walked through the living room and opened the sliding glass doors. Bulka sniffed the air and bounded outside. While she did a patrol of the yard and her business, Joe thought about Wayne Banyan and Connie Marshall. Siblings who were not close. Siblings who did not seem to know each other very well.

Joe shifted gears and pondered Dan Sagget and Dolores Gage. What had he truly discovered about them? About their murders and who had killed them? Not much. He had been … What was that Nancy had said? _I may be chasing shadows_. That could apply to him. He'd been chasing shadows … playing shadow games with Boxberger. Well, that was going to stop. No more games. In a few hours Joe would be at the Healy Police Station filling Detective Ziegler in on all that had happened tonight .. um, last night.

Bulka circled back to the house and Joe let her inside. She shook herself like she was shaking off the cold. Moments later, Bulka was curled up in her doggie bed and Joe was snuggled up to Vanessa. Vanessa had moaned her disapproval of Joe's cold body and then fell back into a deep sleep.

Nancy closed the notebooks, stacked them up, and pushed them to the center of the table. Nothing new had come to light, but she did not consider rereading the notes a wasted effort. Instead, she had cemented certain facts in her mind. That could be important.

Nancy washed the mugs and put them in the drainer then turned off the light and headed to bed.

* * *

 _A/N: I seem to keep lagging behind in posting chapters and I do apologize for that. This story is winding down as many of you have probably guessed. Posting takes me so long because I want to make sure I do justice to the characters and the ending._

 _I would also like to extend a big 'thank you' to everyone who has reviewed. Your reviews keep me pressing forward, wanting to make this story better. I would also like to give a special 'thank you' to guest reviewers. I feel you all can truly speak your mind and I greatly appreciate your honest and thoughtful comments._


	43. Chapter 43

Chapter 43

The sun was a white disc in a cold, blue sky at eight-thirty Friday morning when Frank backed his SUV out of the driveway. Joe sat in the passenger's seat. With Vanessa's help he had managed to put on a fresh t-shirt and a pair of jeans. The jeans could present a problem when nature called, but Joe figured he'd just grin and bear it. Meaning the pain. Pain was going to be his companion for a while. Might as well agree to get along as best they could. He would use his left hand and arm as little as possible. At the moment, his arm wasn't throbbing. Another dose of pain meds had ensured that.

Joe looked at his brother and sneered. Frank wore a crisp, long-sleeve button-up shirt and nice slacks.

"Why the hell are you dressed up this morning?" Joe practically growled.

Frank gave Joe the _patient father look_ , the one that said, okay, son, here's why. Joe hated the _patient father look_. He'd seen it plenty of times when he was younger – much, much younger. His father had worn the look whenever Joe did something stupid. And to be completely honest, young Joe had done a lot of stupid things.

"I'm dressed like this," Frank said, "because, number one, Boxberger took most of my clothes yesterday, including my jacket and boots."

Yeah, Joe thought, all Frank was wearing when Joe had found him was his jeans and _presumably_ his boxers.

"And number two," Frank continued, "Nancy threw out the jeans I was wearing yesterday. In other words, I'm running out of clothes. I only brought three pairs of jeans on this trip and one of them is in the trash. The other two could stand to be washed. Oh, and Nancy threw out your jacket, too."

Joe blew out an exhausted breath. "I know. Vanessa told me."

Frank defended his fiancée's actions. "According to Nancy, Vanessa gave her permission to throw the jacket away."

"Great," Joe complained, "the girls are making decisions without even consulting me."

"Ha!" Frank let out a harsh laugh as he stopped at a traffic light. He turned to his brother and an all knowing gleam shone in his eyes. "Better get used to it, bro. Only gets worse once you're married."

Joe rolled his eyes, but quietly accepted Frank's wisdom. After all, Frank had experience with marriage. He'd been married to his high school sweetheart, Callie Shaw, for four years. The marriage had started out strong, but once Frank enlisted in the Army, things slowly fell apart. Callie wasn't fond of the military life. She longed for a quiet life in their hometown of Bayport, New York. Well, that wasn't going to happen, not as long as Frank was in the Army. Eventually, Callie and Frank separated – on amiable terms. In the end, it all worked out for the best. Callie married a man who worked at the local hardware store in Bayport and they had two beautiful children. Frank met Nancy and fell in love and, to Joe, they seemed perfect for one another.

# # # #

Frank wheeled into the police station parking lot and parked near the front door. Neither he nor Joe had jackets anymore and it was cold outside. The shorter the walk to get inside, the better.

"There's Ziegler," Joe said, pointing to the door of the Police Station.

Ziegler and two uniformed officers stood just outside the door. Ziegler seemed to be giving the officers orders. They nodded, turned, and headed down the steps.

"Let's go," Joe said. "I want to catch him before he gets inside."

Frank agreed with that sentiment and hustled out of the SUV.

Joe got out of the vehicle first and shouted, "Detective."

Ziegler saw Joe and Frank hurrying up the cement steps and waited. Joe couldn't tell if the man was pleased or disappointed to see him. Leave it to a police detective to have a great poker face.

As Joe reached the top step, Ziegler said, "I see you found your brother. Thought I told you not to try and be a hero."

Before Joe could respond, Ziegler nodded at Joe's arm. "How's the snake bite?"

"What? How'd you know about that?"

Ziegler shrugged like it was no big deal. "Spent some time at the ER last night. Busy place apparently. Dr. Reiner said he hasn't seen anything like it in the twenty-five years he's worked at Healy General. First, a snake bite by a goddamn python of all things and _then_ a stabbing. All in one night."

"A stabbing?" Frank said. "Who was stabbed?"

Ziegler's mouth settled into a tight line and he peered at the brothers long and hard. "Deke Boxberger. Doesn't look good for him either. Doctors aren't sure he's going to make it."

"Damn," Joe hissed. "Who the hell stabbed Boxberger?"

Ziegler looked at Joe like he'd asked a dumb question. "That's what we're trying to find out, Hardy. All we've got is a boot-print I found by the outside water spigot where the attacker rinsed his knife."

Zeigler had a harried look around his eyes. Joe could see the man was wired and tired. Too much coffee and too little sleep. He didn't have his suit jacket on which told Joe the man had been on the job for way too many hours already this day.

Ziegler waved his arm. "Let's go inside. I've got a lot to discuss with you two."

Ziegler led the Hardys through the police station lobby, down the hall, and to his office. He motioned the brothers inside and shut the door.

"Looks like you've had a long night," Joe said as he and Frank took seats.

"You don't know the half of it." Ziegler groaned and plopped into his chair behind his desk.

Frank leaned forward and placed his forearms on his thighs. "Any thoughts on who stabbed Boxberger?"

Ziegler picked a large mug up off his desk, looked inside, saw it was empty, and set it back down with visible disappointment. "Got some, but let's table that discussion for a minute. I've got some good news to share. My source at Nicholson's Dockworks finally came through for me. Sent me two videos this morning and some names I should look into."

Joe remembered Ziegler telling him about an inside source at the docks. The source fed Ziegler information sporadically, but never revealed his name or where he worked at the docks.

"I'd like you two to watch the videos," Ziegler said, "and give me your take on them."

Joe and Frank traded glances and simultaneously said, "Sure."

"Might be best if you two came round and stood behind me," Ziegler said.

Joe and Frank rose, walked around Ziegler's desk, and stood behind his chair. Ziegler scrolled through his e-mail, found the one with the videos, and double clicked on it.

The computer screen was black for a second and then there was a _BOOM!_ and crashing noises. The silhouette of a man holding a rifle materialized. He was backlit by moonlight and stood in a doorway.

Joe knew who the man was. Himself. At the snake shack. As if to confirm this, he heard his own voice yell, "Boxberger?"

Frank shot Joe a quick glance. Joe grimaced and Frank swiveled his head back to the computer.

Boxberger's disembodied voice filled the darkness on the screen, "Hardy? What took you so long?"

Joe and Frank watched in silence as the video played out. Joe cringed a little when it got to the part where he yelled at Boxberger, "Just tell me where my brother is and if you've hurt him in any way, and I mean in _any_ way, you're going to pay. You hear me? You're going to pay in blood. _Your_ blood."

Shortly after this Boxberger directed Joe to the center of the room and the trapdoor. Joe felt relief when he watched himself open the door. This time he knew Frank was down there and relatively unharmed.

Boxberger was talking again. His voice made Joe tense. Boxberger was saying, "There. Just like I said .."

A bright flash and the video abruptly ended.

Ziegler turned in his chair and spoke over his shoulder, directing his comment at Joe. "You shot out the camera?"

Joe looked at his brother and then Ziegler. "Yeah, couldn't stand to hear another word out of Boxberger's mouth. I'd found Frank and that's all I cared about."

"Understandable," Ziegler said. "We still have the second video to watch. Things pick up right where this video left off."

"Okay." Joe ran a hand over the back of his neck. "Hey, about what I said about Boxberger paying in blood …"

Ziegler barked out a laugh. "Take it easy, Hardy. I don't think you stabbed Boxberger, if that's what you were about to say."

Joe nodded because, yes, that was exactly what he was about to say.

"You've got an alibi," Ziegler told him. "When I was at the ER last night I checked your discharge time. You were being released about the time Boxberger was getting stabbed." Ziegler's gaze flittered to Frank and back to Joe. "Your brother's off the hook, too. The hospital staff confirmed he was with you when you were released and that he was wearing tennis shoes. I'm looking for someone who wears combat boots in size fourteen."

"Good to know," Joe said matter-of-factly. "By the way, Frank and I both wear size twelve."

Ziegler smirked and played the second video. Joe and Frank watched in silence, jaws and stomachs tightening when the python appeared. It looked bigger and uglier on screen and brought back feelings of dread. The video ended like the first one, with a flash and sudden blackness.

Ziegler waved the brothers back to their chairs. Once they were seated, he looked at Joe. "So, that monster bit you."

"While it was trying to squeeze the life out of me." Joe's wounded arm throbbed at the memory.

Joe and Frank told Ziegler the rest of the story. Their whole adventure in the pit. All about the rattlers. How Joe had shot them. How Nancy and Vanessa had shown up. Frank also related his kidnapping. Told how Boxberger and three other men had surprised him and, at gunpoint, driven him to the abandoned shack.

When the brothers were finished, Ziegler leaned back in his chair and folded his hands in his lap. "Now, let me give you the backstory on the videos. My source called me after he sent the videos. He wanted to make sure I got them and looked at them ASAP. He said he had a bad feeling about what he'd seen on the videos. Once I told him that I knew both of you made it out of the shack alive, he shared his story with me. He said Boxberger came to him a few days ago and asked him if he could install cameras on a piece of remote property that Nicholson owned. The source thought it was an unusual request and his curiosity was piqued, especially since Boxberger gave no explanation for why the cameras were to be installed.

"Later that afternoon, the source, Boxberger, and several rough looking men piled into two vans and were driven to an abandoned shack. My source says he was really curious now. Why would Boxberger want cameras way out in that shack? The source knew better than to ask questions and just got to work. He and the other men followed Boxberger's orders. They put a wall mounted camera on the ground floor of the shack and one in a pit or cavern beneath the floor. The rough looking men provided the muscle, lifting the cameras and screwing equipment into walls. The source's job was to wire things and set it up so that Boxberger could monitor the shack from his computer at work.

"This all seemed weird to the source and he thinks to himself, why the hell does Boxberger need to monitor an abandoned shack in the woods? That's when the source gets a brilliant idea. He slips in a feed to his computer at his office." Ziegler smiled like the Cheshire Cat. "Not bad, huh?"

"Pretty damn smart," Joe agreed. His smile matched Ziegler's.

Ziegler kept grinning. "Source gets to his office this morning, checks the monitor feed and sees what he thinks is a kidnapping gone bad and calls me."

Joe's mind was spinning. This was like Christmas morning. Ziegler's source had come through in a big way. "Those videos are a treasure trove of evidence against Boxberger. You've got him on kidnapping, attempted murder, and knowledge of the deaths of the hobos buried on Nicholson's property. Boxberger may, or may not, be complicit in those deaths. You have to wonder though, he admits to knowing Colonel Charles committed the murders."

"Don't forget," Frank added, "Boxberger also confessed to ongoing illegal activities at the docks."

"Exactly what I've always thought was happening down there," Ziegler said with undeniable satisfaction.

Frank cocked his head and shrugged. "You could add in harboring illegal snakes if you wanted."

Ziegler laughed. "I might let that one slip."

There was a knock at the door and it opened. A female police officer with short cropped hair poked her head inside.

Ziegler glared at the officer, at the interruption. "Yes?"

"Sir, the man in interrogation room one wants to know if he can use the restroom. Or as he so ineloquently put it, Can he _please_ take a piss?"

Ziegler gave the request a moment of thought. "Yes, but someone goes with him."

The female officer's face bunched into a knot of displeasure and disbelief. "You mean go in the stall with him?"

"Well, maybe not in the stall, but definitely in the restroom." Ziegler saw the officer preparing to protest and said, "If you don't want to go in the men's room, Conway, then have Harper do it. I want someone with that man at all times. Is that clear?"

The officer nodded rapidly. "Yes, sir. I'll get Harp to go with him. We won't let him out of our sight."

The door closed and Ziegler suddenly looked exhausted. His early morning wake up and all that had happened, all the hours he'd already put in, were catching up to him. Ziegler pushed back his chair and stood. Joe and Frank followed suit.

Ziegler picked up the mug off his desk. "I need more coffee and to interview the man in room one _again_."

"Again?" Joe said.

"Yep, round two. Man's not being very cooperative."

Frank feared he and Joe were being dismissed and Frank had another question. "Excuse me, Detective, but you said your source also gave you the names of some people you should look into."

Ziegler turned to Frank and studied him for a second. "I did. One of those people is the man sitting in interrogation room one."

Frank saw indecision in Ziegler's eyes. Should he share the names?

"I have some names, too," Frank said. "The men who kidnapped me made no effort to hide their faces or their identities."

"Is that so?" A smile started creeping around the corners of Ziegler's mouth. "I think you should take a look at the man in room one. See if you can ID him."

"Sure."

"Give me a minute to get things ready," Ziegler said. He took his mug and left the room.

It was a full five minutes before Ziegler returned. He had a mug of steaming coffee and looked somewhat refreshed. Frank suspected the man had used the restroom and washed his face.

"You ready?" Ziegler asked Frank.

Frank nodded and the group departed the office. It was only a few steps down the hall to interrogation room one. Ziegler ushered Joe and Frank into a dimly lit room with a one-way mirror. Through the mirror, Joe and Frank saw a man sitting at a table with his head buried in his hands.

"Can't see his face," Frank said, impatient.

"Give it time," Ziegler advised. "By the way, I showed our man in there the videos. He claims to have no knowledge of a shack in the woods. He's Boxberger's best friend – even works with him – and to hear him tell it he doesn't know a damn thing about Boxberger or what he does in his off time."

Joe let out a snort of disdain. "I don't believe it. Best friends do things together. They're in each other's business."

"Couldn't agree more," Ziegler said. He used his mug to point at the man. "Our friend in there is holding back. He knows something. I can feel it. He's torn up about Boxberger, I'll give you that. That emotion is real."

The man in interrogation room one lifted his head and rubbed a hand across moist eyes. Frank and Joe got a good look at the man's profile.

"Travis," the brothers said in unison then stared at each other dumbfounded.

Frank frowned at his brother. "How do you know who he is?"

"He was with Boxberger that first day when I went to the Dockworks. Either him or Boxberger took a shot at me." Joe looked over at Ziegler. "I told you about that and that his name was Travis."

Ziegler gave a nod and a quick grin. "Yes, and I remembered. I've asked Mr. Travis Holt repeatedly about that particular incident. He claims to not know anything about a shooting or you. Never heard your name before."

"That's a load of bull." Joe sneered.

"I can positively ID Mr. Holt," Frank said, an edge of anger in his voice, "as one of the men with Boxberger when I was forced at gunpoint to a waiting car." Frank slowly turned his head toward Ziegler. "You say Mr. Holt's not being cooperative?" Ziegler nodded and Frank said, "I have an idea as to how we can fix that."

Ziegler sipped his coffee. "Okay, lay it on me."

"I'll need a suit jacket and a tie," Frank said. "Can you get those for me?"

Curiosity flickered in Ziegler's eyes. "I think I can."

"Good," Frank said and explained his plan.

# # # #

Joe and Frank stood in the observation room. Frank now wore a suit jacket and tie. The brothers watched through the one-way mirror as Detective Ziegler entered interrogation room one, laid a file folder on the table, and took a seat across from Travis Holt.

"So, Mr. Holt you've had some time to think."

"Time to think?" The words exploded out of Travis Holt and he thumped the table with both fists, jarring the file folder. "I've been sitting in this fucking room for hours. You can't keep me here like this. I've answered all your goddamn questions .."

"I'm afraid you haven't been completely truthful with me, Mr. Holt." Ziegler's calm jolted Travis from his anger.

Travis breathed deeply and reeled in his emotions. "I have," he insisted. "I've answered all your questions." He sounded like a child whining at his father. "All's I want is to know how Deke's doing. Can't you tell me that much?"

Ziegler felt for the man. He understood the brotherhood of military service men in combat. Police officers – well, all law enforcement officers – shared the same bond. Brothers in arms was indeed a special fraternity.

Ziegler gave Travis the truth. "I checked with the hospital. Mr. Boxberger is out of surgery and in ICU. The doctors aren't optimistic though."

Travis squeezed his eyes shut and hung his head. Ziegler thought the man was going to sob and didn't want that. No time for self-pity.

"Tell me again, Mr. Holt, why'd you go to Mr. Boxberger's house last night."

Travis opened his eyes, but didn't look up. His hands, on the table, curled into fists. His answer was slow and measured like he was going to say this one last time. Like he'd said it too many times already. "I told you, I was worried about Deke."

"Why, Mr. Holt, why were you worried about him?"

Travis brought his head up and stared at the wall. Damn ugly wall. Needed a new coat of paint. He sighed, "I .. I just was."

"You see, Mr. Holt, that's where you and me have a problem. You can't explain why you were worried."

Travis studied the wall harder. "I just was. It was a rough day at the office for Deke."

"How so? What happened at the office?"

Travis's gaze drifted to the table top. "I .. I can't say." He shrugged. "Deke just seemed off that day. He wasn't himself." Travis cast a surreptitious glance at Ziegler. "You know what I mean?"

"Sure." Ziegler played the understanding, friendly cop. "I get it. Your buddy seems to be having a bad day so, you're concerned. You go over to his house to check on him. Let's move forward to when you got to Mr. Boxberger's house." Ziegler flipped open the folder and checked his notes. "You said you arrived at eleven-fifteen. Tell me again what you found."

Travis blew out a breath and repeated the story by rote. "I pulled into Deke's driveway. His truck was gone. I thought he must be gone, too, but I noticed the outside light was on and a light was on in the kitchen. I looked closer and saw the back door was open. Just a little. That's when I got a bad feeling. I thought someone must've broken into Deke's place. My next thought was, whoever broke in had stolen Deke's truck. And then I got scared. I was thinking, whoever stole Deke's truck might've hurt him. Deke loved that truck. He wouldn't give it up without a fight."

Travis sniffed and ran a hand under his nose. "I got out of my car and ran into the house, into Deke's kitchen. That's when I seen him. Deke .. on the floor .. bleeding." Travis put a hand to his eyes to ward off the tears. "Only ever seen that much blood when somebody was wounded in Afghanistan. And .. and they didn't make it."

"Okay," Ziegler said, "let's go back to the videos I showed you. You said you know nothing about a shack in the woods and cameras. Is that correct?"

Travis heaved and sighed. "That's what I said."

"Well then, I've got somebody I want you to meet."

Finally, Travis looked at Ziegler. "Huh?"

In the observation room, Frank said, "That's my cue."

Joe slapped his brother on the shoulder. "Good luck, bro."

Two seconds later, Frank entered the interrogation room, unbuttoned the borrowed suit jacket, and sat next to Ziegler at the table.

Travis Holt's eyes went wide. Frank saw a glint of recognition followed by ill-concealed fear and anxiety.

Travis dropped his head and moaned, "Oh god."

Ziegler said, "This is Special Agent Frank Hardy. He's with the Army CID."

Travis cursed at the table top.

Frank said, "Mr. Holt, do you know what the CID is?"

Travis spoke to the table. "Crim .. Criminal something …"

"Criminal Investigation Division." Frank sounded every inch the Special Agent he used to be and, damn, if he didn't like playing the part again. "We investigate felony level crimes such murder, rape, _kidnapping_ , drug trafficking, and illegal weapons smuggling. Just to name a few. Want me to continue?"

Travis shook his head woefully. He had gone very pale.

"Mr. Holt, you're in a lot of trouble," Frank said.

The badge around Frank's neck was on a lanyard. If Travis Holt cared to take a look he would see that it was a PI badge, not an Army badge. Frank was betting Travis Holt was too scared to look. Hell, Travis was too scared to look Frank in the eye.

Ziegler put his forearms on the table and leaned forward. "Mr. Holt, it seems to me that you recognize Special Agent Hardy. Now why is that?"

Travis's head came up and his eyes darted between Ziegler and Frank. He looked like a frightened animal, trapped with no way out. Words burst out of him. "Deke said they were PIs. That we were just gonna scare a couple of PIs. Get'em off Nicholson's back. Scare'em enough to make them leave town. I swear, that's all it was." He held up his hands as if surrendering or warding off more questions.

"Oh, I see," Ziegler said calmly. "You didn't really mean to kidnap anyone. This was all fun and games. Is that what you're telling me?"

Frank's dark gaze locked on Travis like a laser beam. "What about those guns you and Boxberger pointed at me. Were those loaded?"

"Listen," Travis pleaded, the whiny little boy was back, "you have to understand. Deke came to me, said he wanted to scare a couple of PIs by taking one hostage. He said that me and the other guys had to make it look real. We had to act tough, you know. Deke said we weren't really going to hurt anyone, just scare'em."

Frank's jaw clenched and he stared at Travis long and hard. "So, tying me up and leaving me to rot in a black hole with no food or water was just meant to scare me? How'd you feel about that Mr. Holt? When you went about your day, did you think about the man you had left in a hole that morning? The man that sat in the damp and cold for hours and hours getting thirstier by the minute."

"I .. it .. it _did_ bother me. I swear. It did. I went to Deke that afternoon and questioned him about what we'd done."

Frank sensed the honesty in those words. "Good. What'd Deke say when you questioned him?"

"He .. he just said everything was going to be okay. That you and your brother would be gone by the morning and that I should just go home."

And _Poof!_ the honesty was gone, Frank thought. "So, you went home and then what?"

Frank saw the unmistakable slump of a man who was going to tell the truth. A man who had been crashed by the weight of his silence and indifference. The weight of what he had done to another man, a man who had done him no harm.

"I kept thinking about what we'd done." Travis sat hunched in his chair, hands spread-eagle on the table, his posture humble and contrite. His gaze remained fixed on the table top. The table didn't ask questions or pass judgment. "It didn't sit well with me, leaving you at the shack. I decided to go over to Deke's. See if he had let you go." Travis lifted his chin and looked Frank straight in the eye. "I really didn't know what Deke's plan was for you and your brother. He didn't share that with me. He didn't. I swear."

Frank glared at Travis. "You knew about the snakes though."

Travis nodded. "Yeah. Deke had some hobos from the container graveyard carry them in. They put'em in some .. some cages behind a metal wall in the pit. I got the impression Deke had been to that shack before. He seemed to know his way around it and it looked to me like there had been some improvements made. Like that metal wall in the pit. That looked new."

Frank agreed with this assessment. Frank had already figured that Deke had been making changes, improvements, whatever you wanted to call them, at that shack.

Travis, perhaps thinking that now that he was cooperating, asked a question. "Um, I'm wondering, what's the Army CID doing here, in this little town investigating Nicholson's Dockworks?"

Frank didn't mind the question. It was a good one. A smart one. It showed that Travis wasn't just a stooge. The man had some brains. That didn't mean Frank was going to go easy on him. Quite the contrary. Frank put grit and authority into his voice. "You watched the videos, you heard your buddy Boxberger. Illegal activities at the docks. Drugs and military grade weapons smuggling. That's what's happening. And that's a military concern." The part about the drugs and weapons was a lie, but Frank suspected he wasn't far from the truth.

Frank decided to lay it all out for Mr. Travis Holt. "You, my friend, are looking at a first degree felony charge for aggravated kidnapping. That carries a prison sentence of twenty years."

Ziegler jumped in to play the good cop. "A judge might knock a couple of years off if you continue to cooperate with our investigation."

Holt slowly nodded and sucked in a long breath. He looked like a man walking into battle without a gun. A man who was already defeated before the battle began. "I'll cooperate." And now that he had declared his intention to cooperate, he asked another question. This one he directed at Ziegler. "What about Deke's truck? You find it yet?"

Ziegler shook his head. "Not yet. We got a BOLO and APB out on it. It's my feeling that whoever took the truck, stabbed your buddy."

And with that unhappy news, the interrogation was officially terminated.

# # # #

Ziegler opened the door to his office and ushered Joe and Frank in.

Ziegler shut the door and smiled at Frank. "Your ruse worked. You played the Special Agent part perfectly." He picked up his coffee mug, took a sip, and winced. It was stone cold.

Frank took off the borrowed suit jacket, hung it on the coat stand in the corner, and started loosening the borrowed tie. "Wasn't hard to play a part I'd lived and breathed for three years. Have to admit, it felt good." Frank smiled and handed the tie to Ziegler. "Thanks."

Ziegler tossed the tie on his desk and lifted his mug to toast their accomplishment. "Anytime. Here's to us and Mr. Holt's continued cooperation."

A knock at the door drew everyone's attention.

"Come in," Ziegler barked.

The door opened and Sergeant Harper stepped inside. "Here's those photos you wanted, sir. The boot-prints. The one from the river that Mr. Hardy and the dog found and the one from outside Mr. Boxberger's house. You know, the one by the water spigot."

Ziegler set his mug on the desk and took the photos. "Thanks, Harp. You look at them?"

"Yes sir."

"Your thoughts?"

"Prints look the same to me, sir, but I'm no expert."

"Okay, thanks, Harp."

Sergeant Harper departed, closing the door behind him.

Ziegler studied the photos for a long time. Then he turned to Joe. "Here, Hardy, look at these. Tell me what you think."

Ziegler laid the photos on his desk, side-by-side. Joe and Frank stood shoulder to shoulder and examined the images.

"They look identical to me," Joe said.

Frank agreed and pointed to specific, matching details in the photos. His final declaration, "Same boots. These prints were made, most likely, by the same person."

Ziegler eased onto his chair and steepled his hands. "That person being the man who kidnapped a young woman at a diner and tried to kill her. Then he goes out and attacks Boxberger and steals his truck."

"He stole the truck because he needed transportation," Joe said, his good hand fisted at his side. "Don't forget, this is the same man who also kidnapped and attacked my fiancée. He's the same man who Boxberger hired to follow me. You ask me, this guy's gone off the reservation big time. He's not following me anymore. He's off on his own agenda now."

Ziegler quirked an eyebrow at Joe. "We're dealing with a very dangerous man here. If Boxberger lives, I can ask him who this maniac is. Short of that, it looks like Travis Holt is in for another interrogation. He's got to know something about this crazed lunatic." Ziegler sighed. "Think I'll let him have lunch first. Hell, I'd like to have lunch first, seeing as I didn't have any breakfast."

For a few more minutes Joe, Frank, and Ziegler discussed the crazy man and Boxberger. Finally, there was nothing more to say. Joe and Frank left the Police Station. Their morning had been fruitful and productive. Their day was off to a great start.

# # # #

Ziegler sat at his desk and called the local news station. He informed them of the latest attack and stolen truck. Ziegler spoke to the station manager, told him he wanted the public to be aware and on alert for the crazed man. Ziegler wanted the composite sketch of the suspect to run every hour, on the hour. "No one's safe until he's apprehended," Ziegler told the manager.

The manager promised the sketch would be shown every hour accompanied by a bold headline and flashing letters.

Ziegler hung up the phone. He'd done all he could do. He hoped it was enough.

* * *

 _A/N: Whew! A quick update! Hopefully, I can kept doing that. :)_

 _One of my guest reviewers might have noticed that I DID use their idea, all the charges they had listed against Boxberger. Thanks again to that reviewer for so nicely listing the charges! Your review was very helpful when I wrote this chapter._

 _I enjoy all reviews from everyone. I liked that one reviewer thought the last chapter should have had a warning about the yummy hot chocolate! I always try to tickle readers' senses. And several of you thought Joe might be blamed for Boxberger's stabbing. Well, now you see how that turned out. And many of you liked Joe and Nancy's conversation. Thanks. I had thought it might be boring. I was relieved to see that it wasn't._

 _Thanks again everyone!_


	44. Chapter 44

Chapter 44

Nancy and Vanessa were in Nancy's car and headed for Peggy MacDonald's farmhouse to interview Connie Marshall. Nancy discussed with Vanessa how she wanted to handle the interview.

Nancy glanced at Vanessa in the passenger's seat. "Joe told me Connie's been difficult to interview. I'm hoping you .. your presence and your story will resonate with Connie and get her to open up. And thank you, again, for agreeing to come with me and share your experience. I know this wasn't an easy decision for you."

Vanessa cast Nancy a guarded smile. "No, it wasn't, but I've done some research – some reading online – and it seems the best thing I can do is to talk about my experience, especially with others who have gone through a similar experience." Vanessa looked over at her friend. "I believe this interview will be good for me. It'll be good for Connie, too. She won't feel so alone." Vanessa's eyes grew misty. Her gaze shifted to the windshield and the road. She hugged herself. "I know how alone I've felt. Like I'm the only one in the world who's ever been hurt or abused by a man. It's good to know I'm not alone."

This was exactly what Nancy had hoped to hear. In her previous capacity as a police officer and later, police detective, Nancy had interviewed abused and raped women. Talking and listening to those women had taught Nancy a valuable lesson in the way women responded to attacks, particularly sexual ones. Most women were embarrassed and reluctant to talk about the attack. Far too many felt the attack was somehow their fault as if they had done something to provoke it.

Nancy had also engaged in lengthy discussions with counselors and psychologists. Those professionals had given Nancy advice on various ways to interview an abused woman and ways in which to counsel her. Just because the police interview ended didn't mean the woman's trauma ended. Quite the contrary, it was still a long road to recovery for some women.

"Only a fourth a mile to the turnoff," Vanessa said, snapping Nancy out of her thoughts.

Vanessa was the designated navigator. She checked the display on her phone against the passing road signs. Not that there were many road signs. The women had passed through a wooded area earlier in the drive, but now the outside view was of long stretches of flat land and barbed fences. Crops, orchards, and cattle lay beyond those fences.

At last, the women came to the long driveway that led to Peggy MacDonald's house. Nancy maneuvered her car around the worst of the ruts and finally pulled up to the weathered, but pleasant farmhouse. It was a two-story affair with a long, wide front porch. The front door opened as Nancy and Vanessa climbed out of the car.

An older woman waved, smiled at them, and called out, "You must be Nancy and Vanessa."

"We are," Nancy said, walking up the porch steps and extending a hand. "Nice to meet you, Mrs. MacDonald."

Peggy took Nancy's hand in both of hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Please, call me Peggy." She turned and greeted Vanessa with the same gentle squeeze of the hand. "Nice to meet you, Vanessa. Please, come inside. Connie and I are celebrating."

"Celebrating?" Nancy's perfectly arched eyebrows rose.

Peggy motioned the young women through the door and said, "Yes, Sergeant Wyman – she's the officer in charge of Connie's case – she called this morning with good news. The men who attacked Connie pled guilty to rape and assault late yesterday afternoon. The judge has sentenced them to ten years in prison."

"That is, indeed, good news." Nancy smiled warmly and let her gaze travel around Peggy's living room. Handmade afghans and thick, braided rugs made the room cozy and inviting. Nancy especially liked the flagstone fireplace with its' beautiful wooden mantle. She imagined many a cold winter's night spent in this room, the fire blazing and Peggy knitting.

"Oh my," Vanessa said. "It smells absolutely wonderful in here."

Nancy had noticed the heavenly aroma, too. Something baked. Something delicious.

Peggy's eyes twinkled. "Connie and I have been baking up a storm. She's helping me get ready for the Farmer's Market this weekend. I told her, whatever she bakes she can sell and keep the money. Connie's proving to be quite the baker." Peggy brushed a strand of silvery hair off her forehead, leaned closer to her guests, and whispered, "I think baking might give that young woman a purpose in life. The poor thing's been so lost most of her life. No goals. No direction. My guess is, she's just been wandering around aimlessly." Peggy laid a hand on her broad bosom. "It's warmed my heart to see her genuinely excited about the Farmer's Market and the idea of selling baked goods _and_ it's not just because of the money she'll make. I've gotten the impression it's more to do with a sense of accomplishment."

"You are probably right," Nancy said with a grin.

"This way ladies." Peggy herded the women into the kitchen.

Connie stood at the kitchen island, removing a pair of oven mitts. On the kitchen island, laid out in straight rows, were freshly baked pies and bread. Connie had just set two more loaves of bread at the end of a row. She looked up and seemed slightly startled.

"Our guests have arrived," Peggy announced cheerfully.

Nancy extended a hand and was met with a weak, timid grip from Connie. "Hello, Miss Marshall. I'm Nancy Drew. It's very nice to meet you and thank you so much for agreeing to meet with me. I truly appreciate it. Oh, and I've brought a friend. This is Vanessa Bender."

Connie, a bit flustered, stuttered, "N-nice to meet you. Um, both of you."

"Peggy told us the good news," Nancy said. "The men who attacked you have confessed and will be going to prison. That's certainly worth celebrating."

Connie's face twisted in anger. "I'm just happy they finally told the truth."

Peggy, ever-watchful of Connie and her moods, said, "How about we all have a seat at the table. Connie and I prepared tea. I see Connie has sliced the blueberry bread. She and I made it with fresh blueberries from my garden."

Soon, the four women were seated round a circular table nestled in the corner of the kitchen. Each woman had a cup of hot tea and a slice of warm blueberry bread in front of them.

Between sips of tea and bites of bread, Nancy told Connie that Joe and Frank were still concerned about her and were sorry they had not been over to check on her. Connie was surprised and deeply touched by this news. Tears welled in her eyes and Nancy's heart broke. Despite Connie's tough exterior, inside was a lonely, broken woman. She was only a few years older than Nancy, but looked ten years older. Connie's thin frame – much too thin – and pale complexion gave her a haggard appearance. However, Nancy sensed Peggy MacDonald would change all of that. Peggy was the devoted mother hen and she had a new baby chick to fuss over. No doubt about it, Connie Marshall was in good and loving hands.

Nancy glanced at her watch. She and Vanessa had been in the house almost an hour. It was time to start the interview, or at least, move the conversation in that direction.

Nancy looked at Connie, who had finished her tea and bread, and then at Peggy. "I want to be honest and upfront with both of you. I asked Vanessa here because she was recently abducted and assaulted by an armed man. Luckily, she escaped."

"With your help, Nancy," Vanessa pointed out.

Connie's eyes grew wide and bright as she stared at Vanessa. "You? You were abducted? Kidnapped? B-but you're okay now?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Now." Vanessa drew in a deep breath and met Connie's questioning gaze. "It was horrible. I'm still getting over the shock."

"Goodness," Peggy said, horrified. "What happened? Did they catch the man?"

"No." There was a tremor in Vanessa's voice. "He's still out. After me, he kidnapped another woman and tried to kill her. He locked her in the trunk of her car and pushed it in the river."

Peggy put a hand over her gaping mouth. "Wait. Oh my God, Connie and I saw that on the news last night. They showed a sketch of the man, said he was still at large. Is that the man?"

Vanessa nodded grimly. "Yes, that's him and I'm still terrified." She looked at Connie. "I know how you feel, or must have felt. My life .. my security has been shattered. I don't feel safe anymore."

Connie wiped a tear from the corner of her eye and nodded.

Vanessa said, "Nancy thought it would be good for us to meet. And she was right. Seeing you – knowing you survived, too – gives me strength."

Connie looked deep into Vanessa's pale blue eyes. "I'm not alone."

"No, you're not," Vanessa said and hugged Connie tightly.

The women finally released each other and sat at the table, dabbing their eyes with their napkins. The conversation centered around women and assault for several minutes. Nancy saw this as a healing moment for Vanessa and Connie. The women needed to vent, to let some of their internal rage out.

Women – the women in Dan Sagget's past – was a topic Nancy wanted to pursue further with Connie. Nancy just had to wait for the appropriate opening. At last there was a lull in the conversation and Nancy pulled her notepad and a pen out of her handbag.

Peggy, sensing Nancy wanted to talk to Connie privately – or at least, semi- privately – said to Vanessa, "How about you and I clear the table. Give these two some space." Peggy tipped her head at Connie and Nancy.

"Yes, of course." Vanessa smiled. "And I'd like to look at those breads and pies you and Connie baked. You said they were for sale?"

Peggy returned the smile. "I did."

While Peggy and Vanessa washed the cups and plates, Nancy questioned Connie.

"I've read Joe Hardy's notes, Miss Marshall," Nancy said. "I take it, you did not like your stepfather?"

Connie blew out a disgusted breath. "Didn't like him? How 'bout couldn't stand him. Couldn't stand the sight of him."

Nancy nodded sympathetically. "From what I've learned about Dan Sagget there wasn't much to like. From Mr. Hardy's notes, it appears that Dan cheated on your mother while they were married?"

Connie huffed a short laugh. "Yeah, he did, but she paid him back. She cheated, too. Only difference was, my mom married the guy she was cheating with. Dan didn't marry his girlfriend. He dropped her like a hot potato."

"This girlfriend, what was her name?" There was a gleam in Nancy's eyes.

Connie sat very still. She had gone a shade paler and a twinge of fear showed in her troubled expression. "I, um, I. Is that really important? Her name?"

"It might be." Nancy kept her voice calm, although she was perplexed by the sudden change in Connie's demeanor.

"I .. I don't know. This is hard."

Nancy frowned. "Are you afraid of this woman?"

"What?! No. God, no."

"Then what harm can there be in telling me her name?" Nancy stared at Connie, desperate for her to share the name. It might be the key to unlocking the entire puzzle.

Connie looked like she might cry, but remained silent.

"It's someone you know. A friend perhaps." A distasteful thought occurred to Nancy. "Someone your age? That would mean the woman was very young when she was with Dan."

"Eighteen." Connie's voice was low and shaky. She avoided Nancy's gaze. "She was eighteen years old. Just barely."

Nancy digested this information and said, "I have to ask, do you think this woman killed Dan and your mother? Is that why you're frightened?"

# # # #

The curtain was open and Bulka lay in a sunny spot in front of the sliding glass doors that led to the backyard. She napped and dreamed while the sun heated her fur. She was toasty warm. Beyond the doors, Bulka heard the faint rustle of tree branches in the wind, a sound that lulled her to sleep.

Bulka rolled onto her other side and was just falling asleep when a new sound pricked her ears. Her nose twitched, but she didn't open her eyes. Not yet. Instead, she honed in on the sound. Was it worth waking up for?

Hmm, the sound seemed to be coming closer. Yes, yes, it was. Slowly though. Carefully. Cautiously.

Bulka concentrated on the sound. Footsteps. Stealthy ones. Someone was in the backyard, creeping up to the sliding glass doors.

Bulka rolled onto her stomach and lifted her head. Her ears rotated and took in every sound. Bulka crawled forward like she had been taught to do in the Army, keeping her profile low to the ground, and peered out the window. Suddenly, a man appeared at the window. Bulka sprang off the floor, growling and barking. The man jerked back. He had been momentarily surprised. Now, however, he smiled and came closer to the glass. He went down on one knee and looked directly at Bulka as she growled, the fur on her back standing on end. Her warning growls were going unheeded and that made her anxious.

# # # #

Nancy and Vanessa were in the car, heading to their next interview. Connie Marshal had given up the name, not that it meant anything to Nancy, but it was another person to question. A person who knew Dan Sagget twenty years ago. What would Annette Greenway have to say about her relationship with Dan?

"Who is Annette Greenway again?" Vanessa asked.

"Someone Dan Sagget was seeing twenty years ago," Nancy said. "The thing I find interesting is the age difference. Annette was just turning eighteen and Dan was in his forties when they started dating."

Vanessa winkled her nose. "That's kind of creepy. I wonder what Annette saw in Dan?"

"I do, too. We know from Joe's notes that Dan was a womanizer. What was it about him that attracted women?"

"Have you seen a picture of him?"

Nancy glanced at Vanessa. It was a good question. "No, I haven't."

"So, how does Connie know Annette? Were they friends in high school?"

Nancy turned back to the road. "Connie wouldn't say and I didn't push. Connie's still emotionally fragile and I didn't want to upset her unnecessarily. Hopefully, Annette will tell us how she and Connie know each other."

Vanessa nodded and checked her phone. "Ah, here we are. Maple Lane. Turn left at the stop sign."

Nancy did as instructed and said, "Which house is it?"

Vanessa checked the map on her phone. "Third one on the right."

Nancy drove past older homes, their paint weathered and peeling. The lawns were a mixture of mowed and neglected. Annette Greenway's lawn fell into the neglect category.

Nancy pulled into the narrow driveway and parked. "Ready?" she asked Vanessa.

Vanessa grabbed her purse and peered into the back seat. Two pink boxes rested on the floor. Vanessa looked at Nancy. "I think the pie and bread should be okay in the car for a while. It's a cool day so they won't spoil."

Nancy smiled. The pie and bread had perfumed the car with their heavenly aroma. "I think it was very nice of you to buy them from Peggy and Connie. Connie looked so happy at her 'first' sell."

Vanessa waved away the compliment. "I think Joe and Frank will be happy, too. Apple pie is Joe's favorite. Besides, buying them was for a good cause."

"It certainly was," Nancy said and the women climbed out of the car.

# # # #

Joe and Frank arrived at the rental house around one in the afternoon. Lunch had been hamburgers and fries at a fast food place. Afterwards, the brothers had gone shopping. Joe carried his bags one handed. New jeans, shirts, and boots. Frank had bought the same. Joe wore his new jacket as did Frank. The air was decidedly chilly.

"You know," Joe said as Frank slipped the key into the doorknob, "I had fun shopping. Promise me you'll never tell Vanessa that though. If she hears about this, she'll want to take me on every future shopping trip for the rest of our lives."

"My lips are sealed." Frank mimed locking his lips and throwing away the key. He was about to say more, but behind the door Bulka was barking up a storm and it wasn't a happy bark. "You hear that?" he asked Joe.

"Yeah, something's wrong. Hurry up, open the door."

Frank pushed the door open and was greeted by a frantic dog. Bulka's barks held a note of aggression and desperation. The fur on her hackles was slightly lifted. She barked at the brothers, ran to the sliding glass doors, and barked with greater urgency. _C'mon, get over here!_

"What's up with her?" Frank asked as he hauled in his shopping bags.

Joe dropped his bags on the floor and walked toward the glass doors. "What is it, girl? What's the matter?"

"Maybe there's a squirrel in the backyard?" Frank said as he shut the door and locked it.

Joe scanned the yard. "No, she wouldn't be this wound up about a squirrel. She's alerting us to danger."

Frank joined Joe at the sliding glass doors. "Danger?"

"Yeah, she must've seen something in the yard." Joe flipped the lock and slid the door open.

Bulka was off like a shot, leaping through the opening and dashing to the grassy lawn. Her nose touched the ground and she followed the scent.

"I'm getting my gun," Frank said and headed to his bedroom.

"Good idea." Joe stood at the doors and waited. He watched Bulka track the scent to the house. She went from one bedroom window to the next and Joe's blood ran cold.

Frank came hustling back, handgun in hand, down along his thigh. "See anything?"

Joe pointed at Bulka sniffing the window sill of his and Vanessa's bedroom. "She did the same at your window, Frank. Someone was here, snooping around, maybe trying to get in."

"Let's find out who." Frank stepped outside and walked cautiously to Joe's bedroom window. The air was cold on his face and hands. He was happy to have a new jacket. He held his gun two handed, away from his side. Ready to aim and shoot. He searched the grass for footprints as he approached the window.

Bulka had gone back to the lawn to pick up the scent again. Joe came out of the house. When he and Frank had arrived home, Joe had wanted nothing more than to take his antibiotic and pain meds. Now, finding out who had been at the house was far more important. His throbbing arm would have to wait. Joe shifted his gaze between Frank and Bulka.

"No footprints," Frank called out, disappointed. "The grass is too thick."

"Bulka's got something," Joe called back. "She's heading for the river."

The brothers followed Bulka to the dock. Here the ground was damp and, in some places, muddy. No grass grew this close to the river. If an intruder was to get into the backyard, this was the way to do it. The privacy fence did not go all the way to the edge of the river. There was a good five foot gap between the fence and the water. Anyone could walk, _unseen_ , along the outside of the fence and slip around and into the yard. Joe hadn't thought of this scenario before, and now, the thought gave him chills.

"There," Frank said, excited. "Footprints."

The men squatted near the prints. There were several. Some overlapped others. It was clear the person had come around the fence, into the yard and up to the house, and had eventually retraced their steps when they left.

Joe didn't like what he saw. He was sure Frank saw the same thing and didn't like it either. Joe voiced what they both were thinking. "We've seen these prints before."

Frank nodded. "This morning in Ziegler's office. Combat boots, size fourteen. This isn't good."

"That's an understatement." Joe laid a hand on his knee and pushed to his feet. Thoughts and emotions collided in his head and stomach. Anger and fear topped the list.

Frank's dark brow furrowed. "How'd he find the house?"

"That's what I'd like to know," Joe growled. He ran his tongue over his lips. A nervous gesture born of frustration.

Frank slid his gun into the waistband of his jeans and pulled out his phone. "I'm taking a picture and sending it to Ziegler. He can compare these prints with his and let us know if they match."

Joe shook his head like Frank was wasting his time. "They'll match."

"We need to be one hundred percent certain," Frank said. "And Ziegler needs to know the guy was here. This guy knows where we're staying and that means," Frank hesitated, "that means he knows where Vanessa is." Frank hated adding that last part, but knew he had to and he knew Joe had to be thinking it.

Joe's jaw clenched so tight he thought he might crack a tooth. The crazy man had been to his house. He'd waltzed right up to it and peeked in the windows. This wasn't good and worst, Joe felt ill prepared for a confrontation. He had one arm in a sling throbbing like a jackhammer and no idea how to find the crazy man. Bigger question, _how-in-the-hell_ had the man found Joe and Vanessa?

Forty-five minutes later, Joe was seated at the dining table, sipping water. The pain medicine was starting to take effect. Bulka was under the table gnawing on a chew bone. Frank was in his bedroom putting away his new clothes. Joe had tossed his on his bed. Putting them away could come later. Antibiotic and pain medicine had come first.

Frank had phoned Detective Ziegler and sent him the picture of the prints. Ziegler had been excited and said he was sending a tech to the house to photograph the prints and take a cast. If the prints matched, Ziegler promised a patrol car would be parked outside the rental house all night, every night, until the man was caught. Joe felt good about that. The patrol car might ease Vanessa's fears once she heard about the footprints.

Frank came out of his bedroom, holding his phone. "Nancy just texted me. The girls had an interview with an Annette Greenway. Nancy thinks this might be the break we need in Dan Sagget's murder."

Joe's face scrunched in confusion. "Who's Annette Greenway?"

Frank shrugged. "Don't know. Nancy says she'll explain when she and Vanessa get here. She also said she and Vanessa are picking up dinner."

"That's good." Joe said. He sounded weary. "I mean the dinner and the interview. I'm glad someone has good news." He looked up at his brother standing beside the table. "The girls aren't going to be happy when they hear about the footprints."

Frank sat at the table. "No, but they'll be happy to know that Boxberger is in the hospital and Travis Holt is in jail. Ziegler told me he has a search warrant for Nicholson's office and with any luck, Nicholson will soon be behind bars, too."

Joe sipped his water and said, "What about Colonel Charles?"

Frank laid his phone on the table and leaned forward. "More good news. Ziegler had him arrested this afternoon. He's in jail, too."

"Okay, so we have some good news to share with the girls."

"That's the spirit," Frank said with a smile.

Yeah, Joe thought, on the surface the good news seemed to outweigh the bad. But, in his opinion, the bad news was really, really bad.

* * *

 _A/N: Very sorry for the long delay. I have no excuse other than I felt more like sewing than writing. Horrible isn't it? But I do want to thank each and every one of you who have left a review. You are all so sweet to take the time to leave me a few kind words. Without you I might never finish a story! Take care and I'll try my best to be quicker on the updates._


	45. Chapter 45

Chapter 45

As dusk approached, Predator drove out of town. He was in a new stolen car, not Deke's shiny, red truck. Red. Such a vivid color. So easy to spot. It stood out in a crowd.

Deke's red truck was stashed in the woods not far from Deke's house. Predator grinned at his clever deception. He'd only stolen the truck to throw off the police. They were out in force, looking for a red truck. A truck Predator was not using.

However, Predator did intend to use the cash he'd found in Deke's wallet – seventy dollars – and the handgun he'd taken from the waistband of Deke's jeans. The gun was a good find. Well worth breaking into Deke's house. Predator had gone through the house long before Deke ever came home last night. Predator had found the boxes of ammo in Deke's bedroom closet and knew there had to be a gun. When it wasn't in the house, Predator figured Deke had it with him.

"Thank you, Deke." Predator chuckled, but there was no mirth in the laugh. Predator was now in possession of the gun and the ammo.

 _Fortune favored the bold_.

It was an old saying, one Predator's platoon sergeant had frequently used in the desert. Predator had certainly been bold as of late and fate did seem to be going his way.

Fate had led him to the rental house where Joe Hardy was staying. Of course, that was Hardy's own fault. Hardy and Predator had chosen the same afternoon to spy on Deke's house. What were the chances of that happening? Had to be fate. Fate had handed Hardy to him on a silver platter .. along with the blonde.

Predator looked at the road and the setting sun. Perfect time of day to be leaving town. Not that he was going far. No, not him. He was looking for a place to hide out for a week or more. He wasn't leaving Healy until he accomplished what he'd set out to do. Abduct the blonde.

Maybe he should use her name. Vanessa. A pretty name for a pretty lady. Oh, yes, she was a lady. Someone who would never give him the time of day. He wasn't her type, but that would change. He would see to it.

Pastures and farms swept past the car windows. The air was ripe with the scent of the earth. Out here, among the farms, he would find a place to hide. An old barn. An abandoned farmhouse. Something. The land was vast and wide. Sprinkled with opportunities. He just had to find the right one.

# # # #

The crime scene tech was backing out of the driveway when Nancy and Vanessa pulled up to the rental house.

"That-that's a police car," Vanessa stammered. "Dear God, why were the police here?"

Nancy shut off the engine. The front door of the house opened and Frank and Joe came out. Bulka slipped around the men and leaped down the porch steps. Bulka was the first to greet Vanessa when she opened her car door. Joe came next with a ready kiss and an one-armed hug.

"Everything's okay," he said, answering Vanessa's unasked question.

The angles of Vanessa's face hardened. "I saw the police car. Everything cannot be okay."

Joe's shoulders sagged. "You're right, but can we unload the car first and discuss this in the house? Please?"

Vanessa nodded her consent. She had a feeling she might need to be seated when she heard what had happened.

# # # #

Vanessa and Nancy laid out the dinner they had bought on the way home from Annette Greenway's. Peggy MacDonald had told the women about a little country diner that made great takeout dinners.

Over a delicious meal of mashed potatoes and gravy, coleslaw, herb-roasted chicken, and farm fresh green beans, the two couples shared the events of their day. Bulka waited impatiently under the table. Her chew bone – for the moment – had lost its' appeal. What was above, and on the table, smelled so much better.

Vanessa and Nancy were happy to hear that Travis Holt and Colonel Charles were behind bars and that Nicholson might soon be joining them. The next bit of news the brothers shared wasn't met with smiles. Joe told the women about the footprints down by the dock and how Bulka had sniffed at the window sills.

"How did that man find this house?" Vanessa directed the question at Joe.

"I've racked my brain trying to figure that out," Joe said. "The best I can come up with is, he got the information from Boxberger. We know Boxberger found this place because he phoned the house the night you and Nancy were at the police station looking at the sketch of the crazy man."

Joe saw Vanessa cringe slightly. She might be afraid, but she was keeping her emotions under control. That was good. Joe explained his thought process. "The man probably went through Boxberger's house last night, either before or after he stabbed him. Maybe Boxberger had this address written down somewhere and the man found it."

"That sounds reasonable and logical," Nancy said.

Frank's phone binged. "It's a text from Ziegler." He stared at his phone for a moment before looking up. "It's official. The prints from here match the prints at Boxberger's house and the river. It's the same man. Ziegler says he's sending a patrol car. They'll stand watch outside the house until six a.m."

Joe looked at Vanessa. "Does that make you feel better? Having a patrol car outside all night."

Vanessa pushed her dinner plate away and gave the question some thought. How did she feel? Was she safe? Had she ever been safe in her life? Honestly, people woke up each morning and went about their lives never knowing if it would be their last. She could slip in the bathtub tonight and break a leg. A person never knew what the future held, therefore, one should live life to the fullest. Don't worry about the bad things that might happen, live life for the good things that could happen. Like the love of a wonderful man.

Vanessa saw the hurt and guilt in Joe's eyes. He blamed himself for this. For the crazy man. Vanessa didn't want that. Joe needed to live his life to the fullest, too. She took his hand in her. "The patrol car does make me feel better. That and having you by my side."

Frank caught Nancy's eye and motioned with his head. They quietly got up and cleared the table while Joe and Vanessa kissed.

# # # #

Nancy heated water for tea and Frank cut the apple pie. He gave Bulka a chunk of chicken. She wolfed it down in two seconds.

"Did you even taste it?" Frank asked the dog and laughed.

The kettle whistled and Nancy turned off the heat. "Who wants tea?"

Everyone did. Chamomile for the women. Lipton for the men. Soon, everyone was once again seated at the table.

Joe cut into his slice of pie and looked at Nancy. "Frank and I told you and Vanessa about our day, now, it's your turn to share. Who is Annette Greenway and why is she important?"

Nancy smiled. "I like how you get right to the point, Joe."

"So?" he said impatiently.

Nancy's smile faded and her tone became serious. "Annette is Connie Marshall's cousin. She's important because she had a relationship with Dan Sagget twenty years ago when she was in her teens."

A corner of Joe's lip lifted in disgust. "Her teens?"

"Yes." Nancy nodded. "She turned eighteen shortly after they started seeing each other."

Frank looked as disgusted as Joe. "Started seeing each other? As in dating? People would've known about that. Her parents, her aunts and uncles. Even Wayne would've known."

"No," Nancy told Frank. "No one knew. She and Dan kept their relationship a secret."

Joe was thinking hard, turning the facts over in his head. "But someone did find out. The question is, did they find out back then or recently?"

Nancy lifted a forkful of pie. "That's the part Annette is unsure of. She was very open with me about her relationship with Dan. She said it didn't end well."

Joe picked up his tea cup and took a careful sip. "How so?"

Joe watched Nancy's expression turn sour. He sensed this part of the story was not going to be easy to hear.

Nancy put down her fork. "About a year into the relationship, Annette became pregnant. She and Dan argued about the baby. Annette wanted to keep it and Dan didn't. He said it would ruin both of their lives. Annette admitted she was young and foolish back then. She naively thought Dan loved her and would marry her. He'd frequently told her about the fights he and Dolores had and that Dolores was seeing someone else and talking about divorce."

"Okay," Joe said, "so Annette thought she was the new girl in Dan's life, that he would replace one wife with another."

"Yes," Nancy agreed. "Dan's extreme anger over the baby and his ultimatum that she 'get rid of it' – his words – finally, made Annette see the truth. She realized Dan had never loved her. He'd only been using her."

"Teenagers," Joe said. An image of his first love materialized in his head. Iola. Killed by a car bomb meant for him. He didn't dwell on the sadness and instead, remembered their passion. At eighteen their feelings had been magnified. Everything was new and intense. Every touch akin to a lightning bolt. Every kiss set off heated sparks and insane desire. Reason and common sense flew out the window. All that mattered was that one precious moment spent with the one you loved. You wanted those moments to last forever.

Frank spoke, yanking Joe out of the past, "Did Annette keep the baby?"

"She did," Nancy said. "The child, a girl, is nineteen now. She's married and lives here in Healy."

Frank's dark brow knotted in concern. "How did Annette explain the pregnancy to her parents? They had to have asked who the father was."

Nancy took a sip of tea. "They did. Repeatedly. Annette says she made up a fictional guy. She told her parents she met him at a friend's party. She got drunk and they had sex in one of the bedrooms. Her parents were hurt and demanded the boy's name. Annette told them she didn't know his name. She yelled at them, said all she knew was that he was from out of town and older."

"And her parents bought that?" Disbelief laced Frank's voice.

Nancy gave a small shrug. "What choice did they have?"

"Something like that would eat at a parent," Joe said quietly. "As a father, you'd want to know who got your teenage daughter pregnant. You'd want that person to stand up and do their duty. You'd want them to pay child support." Joe looked at Nancy. "Did Annette get any money from Dan for the baby? Did he support the little girl in any way?"

Nancy shook her head. "No, he stayed as far away from Annette and the child as possible. Annette says he never once visited the child. Annette raised her daughter with the help of her parents. They paid for doctors' bills, diapers, food, and all the other things a child needs."

Joe thought about Annette's father. In the father's mind, this was an older man taking advantage of a young girl. He would be angry at the man who had gotten his daughter pregnant. Joe knew a thing or two about anger. He had spent years angry at an unknown person who had planted a bomb in his car. The bomb that killed Iola.

Anger was like a buoy on the surface of the ocean. What you thought someone was angry about was only the tip of the iceberg. You had to follow the buoy's chain all the way down to the ocean floor to find what it was attached to. That was where the real anger lay. In this case, the anger lay in the past, with the original sin. With the man who had slept with a father's daughter and then disappeared.

Joe asked himself, what would such a father do when he discovered the truth? When he one day learned the name of the man who had fathered a child and then disappeared? But the man hadn't really disappeared, had he? No, Dan Sagget had been living right here in Healy the whole time, blissfully going about his life until fate intervened.

Nancy's voice broke into Joe's thoughts. "Joe, you're awfully quiet."

Joe scrubbed a hand over his chin and looked at the others. Everyone was staring at him, waiting, wondering. "I..I was thinking about Annette's father and how he would feel about the pregnancy."

"He wouldn't be happy," Frank said.

Understatement of the year, Joe thought.

"Annette told me the names of her parents," Nancy said.

Joe held up a hand. "I think I know who they are."

"I thought you might," Nancy said.

"Who?" Frank asked.

"Wayne's Aunt and Uncle, Maureen and Michael Mueller." Joe looked at Nancy. "Am I right?"

Nancy grinned. "You are."

"Wayne and Connie both mentioned their Uncle Mike to me." Joe shook his head as if to shake away errant thoughts. "I should have seen this. Mike's wife Maureen is a realtor. She sold Wayne the house he lives in. Mike knows that house inside and out. He knows the address and Wayne's work hours. He knew that Wayne had a dog. It all fits."

Frank glanced at Joe, Vanessa, and then Nancy. "Are you saying Mike Mueller killed Dan Sagget and his sister Dolores Gage?"

Nancy nodded. "That's my working theory."

"And then he framed Wayne for the murders?" Frank asked somewhat incredulously.

"Yes," Joe said, "and it worked until now."

"Why?" Frank insisted. "Why frame Wayne?"

Joe sighed. "Wayne's the perfect scapegoat. He has a reputation in town for being weird and kinda scary. He's a loner that no one understands and worse, he told his sister and uncle that he hated Dan Sagget and wanted him dead. If that wasn't enough, Uncle Mike probably knew about Wayne's childhood abuse. That alone, in the eyes of the police, would give Wayne a motive for murdering his stepfather and mother."

Vanessa frowned. "I can kind of understand Mike wanting to kill Dan Sagget for what he did, but I don't understand why Mike would kill his sister? She had nothing to do with Dan Sagget and Annette's relationship."

Joe shrugged. "Guilt by association? No, now I remember. Dolores told me she knew about Dan's affair. She knew he was seeing someone young and pretty, that's how she put it. It's not much of a stretch to assume she knew who he was seeing."

"And she kept that a secret," Vanessa said, "even from her brother?"

When Joe didn't answer, Nancy said, "That's something we need to find out."

Joe, as if reading Nancy's mind, said, "We need evidence that puts Mike Mueller at the crime scenes. We need his DNA on the gloves or an ax handle."

"A confession would be nice," Nancy said and smiled at Joe. "I have a suggestion. Vanessa and I could interview Maureen Mueller tomorrow while you and Frank interview Mike Mueller."

"Agreed." Joe gave a curt nod. "I like it and I've been meaning to talk to Mike for a while. He's a loose end that needs to be tied up. Maybe he'll wind up in handcuffs before this week's over."

" _If_ our theory of the crime is correct," Frank said, reminding everyone that all they had at the moment were guesses and hypotheses.

Joe looked at his brother. "You're right. Looks like we still have work to do."

# # # #

They stood next to each other in silence. The bedroom was gloomy, lit only by the moonlight seeping around the curtains. Someone should turn a light on, but no one did. She ran a hand over his bare chest and it made his skin ache. Her fingers traced the veins and muscles of his good arm, the one not in a sling. Her hand was warm and the warmth radiated up his arm and to his chest.

He touched her face, carefully stroked her hair, and pulled her to him. She pressed her face into the crook of his neck and they stood like that, alone in their thoughts.

At last, he whispered, "Vanessa."

She lifted her head and he kissed her. Her arms went around his neck and he reveled in the sensation of her. Of her skin against his. Of her lips on his. His hand was at the small of her back, pressing her to him.

She broke the kiss, drew back, and stared into his eyes. She had never looked at him like this before. It was as if she saw something new in him. He knew, that at times, he could be guarded and closed off, wanting to keep his secrets and demons hidden from the world and especially, from her. He had come to realize that that wasn't necessary, not with her. She could handle his past and his demons. For her, he was an open book. And that was the way he wanted it. Open and honest.

He would be honest, completely honest, with her tonight. "I want you in my life forever," he said. "For however long forever is. I love you so much."

"I love you, too," Vanessa whispered and kissed his chin.

"The thing I fear most is you being in danger because of me." His voice was thick with emotion. "I hate that. There are times I think I should let you go. Push you away for your own good. But I love you too much. I don't ever want to let you go, not even when I think it's the best thing for you."

"Joe?" There was apprehension in her voice.

He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "You're a part of me, Van. A missing part. You complete me. I'm whole when we're together."

She hugged him tightly, being careful of his injured arm. He felt her hot breath against his skin and her tears on his chest.

"Vanessa? I didn't mean to.."

She drew back her head and laid a finger on his lips. "Joe, you don't have to worry about me. I don't want that. I've never wanted that. Nancy keeps telling me I'm strong. You keep telling me I'm strong. I think it's time I started believing it. Really believing it."

"Good," he said. "Because it's true. You are strong .. in spirit and emotions and physically."

She smiled, closed her eyes, and kissed him tenderly on the lips.

Later, they lay in bed, her head on his shoulder and a hand on his chest.

"I don't know what life will throw at us," she said, "but I'm ready for it, in my heart and in my soul. I think of your mother and how she never knew what to expect when you and Frank were on a case. She didn't know what would happen to you or what kind of shape you would be in when you came home. It's hard to imagine. It had to be hard on her, but she survived."

"She's an amazing woman." Joe kissed Vanessa's hair. "And I've only recently come to appreciate how amazing she is. The amount of stress Frank and I put her though? It's a wonder she's sane. When I was young I never gave those things much thought. I was too wrapped up in what I was doing. In solving a case."

"You're older and wiser now," Vanessa said softly.

"Maybe."

Vanessa smiled and said, "We'll be like your parents. We'll face life together – as a team – and God willing, as a family. Just like your family did."

"I like that," Joe said, his voice heavy with sleep. His mind drifted to his family. They had been, and were, a strong unit. An unbreakable team. Marrying Vanessa just meant the team was adding a member.

As Joe's eyes closed, he heard Vanessa whisper, "I love you, Joe Hardy."

That made him smile.

* * *

 _A/N: Hey look, I'm rather quick on posting. I hope this chapter answered some of your questions. This story is winding down and there are probably only about four or five more chapters to go. Once again, I want to thank everyone who has left a review. I try to respond to each reviewer. If I missed you, I am so very sorry._

 _To the guest reviewer on Chapter 44: You made me laugh with, Does Peggy have extra room? :) And I appreciated that you pointed out the structure of the chapter and that you liked it._

 _Thanks again everyone!_


	46. Chapter 46

Chapter 46

Saturday morning, Frank was at the kitchen counter cracking eggs into a bowl.

"I thought I heard someone in here," Vanessa said as she walked into the kitchen-slash-dining room.

Frank turned and smiled. "Morning, Van. How'd you sleep?"

"Okay. Pretty good, actually. Once I got to sleep." She checked the clock on the stove. It said eight-thirty. "This is a late breakfast for you."

Frank cracked another egg. "It's been a busy morning. Nancy and I got up at five-thirty. The police car was still here so we took some coffee and a slice of blueberry bread out to the officer."

Vanessa leaned a hip against the counter. "I bet he appreciated that."

Frank nodded and added milk to the bowl of eggs. "He did. He stayed here until Nancy and I got back from our run. We took Bulka with us."

Vanessa smiled softly. "Well, that explains why Bulka wasn't in the bedroom when I got up at seven-forty-five. How'd she like the run?"

"Loved it. She found a new stick." Frank shrugged and smiled. "She has a thing for sticks." He picked up a fork and started beating the eggs.

"Where's Nancy and Bulka now?" Vanessa asked, looking around.

Frank jerked his head toward the sliding glass doors in the living room. "Backyard. Nancy's checking the office email and message machine. She's also going to call Monica LaMarca. Bring her up to date on Boxberger, Travis Holt, and Colonel Charles."

Vanessa blinked and blew out a breath. "Wow, when I think about it .. a .. a lot has happened since we last saw Monica."

Frank studied Vanessa's expression for a moment and said, "It has. Hey, how's Joe's arm?"

Vanessa came out of the mini-funk she'd slipped into, shook her head, and said, "Much better. The swelling's gone down a lot. He says he might not need the sling today. The bruising is bad though."

"And will be for a while." Frank spoke from personal experience with bruising. "How are you doing? Still sore?"

"Me?" Vanessa appeared surprised by the question. She'd forgotten her own injuries when Joe got hurt. "I'm fine. No more pain. Just a few small bruises."

Frank's phone – on the counter – buzzed. He picked it up and looked at the caller ID. He turned to Vanessa. "I have to take this. It's Detective Ziegler."

"No problem. I'll start the eggs. Is scrambled okay?"

"That'd be great." Frank walked to the living, phone to his ear.

Vanessa could hear him talking to Detective Ziegler, but didn't pay attention. Instead, she focused on the eggs. She got a pan ready with butter and oil. She also saw that Frank had chopped potatoes and had a pan waiting for them. By the time Frank finished his call, Vanessa had breakfast almost finished.

Everyone arrived at once. Joe came out of the bedroom dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, his injured arm exposed for all to see. His eyes lit up at the sight of Vanessa scooping fried potatoes out of a pan.

Nancy and Bulka came in from the backyard. Nancy shut the sliding glass doors before the cold air could seep inside. Frank, in the living room, put an arm out and blocked Nancy's path to the kitchen. He wrapped her in his arms and pulling her into a kiss.

Bulka trotted past Frank and Nancy and up to Joe, her new stick in her mouth. She pawed at his pant leg as if to say, _Look at me! Look what I have_.

Joe's blond brow rose in surprise. "Another stick?" He got down on one knee and stroked the fur on Bulka's head, lingering and tugging gently on her velvety ears. His days with Bulka were coming to an end and his heart ached at the thought. He gave the dog a one-armed hug.

Frank released Nancy and said to Joe, "Nancy and I took her on a two mile run this morning. She found the stick when we stopped for a water break."

Joe smiled Bulka. "Better than finding IEDs, isn't it, girl?" Joe's smile dropped like a stone. Bulka didn't need to be reminded of that time in her life. Hell, neither did he.

Nancy sensed this was a good time to change the subject and nudged Frank's arm. "Who were you on the phone with?"

"Detective Ziegler," Frank said, directing his answer to Nancy and Joe. "He has a name and info on the man who stabbed Boxberger."

"Great," Joe said raising from the floor. "That's a good start to the day." He, Frank, and Nancy headed for the dining table. Bulka plopped on the hardwood floor and chewed on her stick.

Vanessa had the food ready and waiting. Everyone grabbed a plate, filled it, and sat at the table.

Nancy looked at Joe's injured arm. The swelling had gone down considerably. It was the bruising and four angry, red puncture wounds that caused her to grimace. "How's your arm feel?"

Joe gave the arm a quick glance. "It looks worse than it feels. I can move it today without shooting pains. I'm taking that as a sign it's getting better." Joe turned to his brother. "What'd Ziegler have to say?"

Frank finished chewing his eggs and swallowed. "Travis Holt has been very cooperative since our visit. Guess I made an impression on him when I interrogated him or the possibility of the military investigating the docks has him spooked. He and Boxberger are former Marines. Travis knows what the CID is. Like the Army, the Marine Corps has a CID." Frank stared into the distance. "I wonder if he's been investigated before .. while in the Corps."

"I've been meaning to ask," Vanessa said snapping Frank out of his thoughts, "didn't Travis Holt find it odd that you weren't in an Army uniform when you questioned him?"

Frank's brow lowered and furrowed. "No, he didn't and that's why I'm wondering if he's been investigated before by the Marine Corps CID. He didn't ask about the uniform and anyone who's been investigated by the CID soon finds out that personnel in the CID _don't_ wear uniforms."

"They don't?" Vanessa was genuinely curious. "Why not?

"For the same reason they don't use rank when conducting an investigation. All personnel are called Special Agents. That way a suspect or witness doesn't know if they're being interrogated by an enlisted service member or an officer."

Joe explained, "A sergeant can wind up interrogating a much higher ranking service member such as an officer like a captain, major, colonel, et cetera."

Frank added, "The military doesn't want the rank to get in the way of the investigation. An officer, under investigation, could try and pull rank if he knew he outranked the person interrogating him."

"I see," Vanessa said slowly. "So, you wore civilian clothes when you were in the Army?"

Frank sipped his coffee and nodded. "Most of the time, yes. My unit wore uniforms only for special ceremonies. Promotions and things like that."

Joe speared a fried potato. Ziegler must have called for a reason and Joe wanted to know the reason. He looked at his brother and said, "Back to Travis Holt. Did he have anything new to say? Something that might help us with our case?"

"Yes and no," Frank said. "He didn't have any information that would help us with Dan Sagget and Dolores Gage's murders. But he did have a name for the crazy man and some information on him."

"Great," Joe said. Finally, they had something and something was better than nothing.

Frank set his coffee mug on the table. "The man's name is Richard Bradley. Travis knew him in the Marine Corps and Travis introduced him to Deke about two months ago. Richard was recently discharged from the Corps. Ziegler has requested Bradley's service record ASAP. Travis said Bradley was known as 'Big Bad Brad' in the Corps."

"Big Bad Brad?" Joe said with a smirk and a hint of distaste. "Any particular reason for that nickname? Or will I regret asking?"

Frank's dark brows puckered into a pinched frown. "Both. Travis told Ziegler that Bradley had issues with female Marines. Several filed complaints against him alleging inappropriate behavior. Travis doesn't know what became of the complaints and he doesn't remember there being any sort of disciplinary action taken against Bradley. But then, Travis got out of the Corps a year before Bradley did."

An angry heat crawled up Joe's neck and his good hand, resting on the table, curled into a fist. This was bad news all the way around.

Vanessa appeared horrified. "And this man, this Bradley, is out there walking around free."

"It's worse," Frank said quietly. "He's armed and not just with a knife. Ziegler took Travis over to Boxberger's house this morning to see if anything was stolen. Travis said some clothes and Boxberger's handgun were missing along with a box of ammunition."

Joe ran his hand over his stubbly chin. The situation had gone from bad to worse. Joe looked into Frank's weary eyes. "Is there any good news?"

"Depends on how you look at it," Frank said. "Boxberger survived the night. Doctors are cautiously optimistic he might pull through."

Great, Joe thought. Boxberger, a despicable human being in so many ways, might survive while a decent, honest man like Tommy Sims had never had a chance. Sims had been brutally murdered by Colonel Charles, a man he'd once called 'friend.'

"I have some good news," Nancy said the hint of a smile lifting the corners of her mouth.

Joe turned his head and looked at her with hope in his eyes.

"I've set up interviews with Maureen and Mike Mueller for this morning," Nancy said. "Van and I will meet Maureen at her Real Estate Office at eleven. You and Frank will meet Mike at his home at the same time."

"I like it," Joe said.

An hour later the two couples were preparing to leave for their respective interviews. Joe walked up to Nancy and handed her a note.

Curiosity flashed in Nancy's eyes as she took the note. "What's this?"

"Questions I want you to ask Maureen Mueller," Joe said. "I plan on asking Mike the same ones. We'll see if their answers match."

Nancy quickly scanned the questions, lifted her head, and nodded at Joe. "I'll make sure to work them into my interview."

# # # #

Living in the country wasn't always the best choice. Homes sitting a good distance off the road with no neighbors for miles invited temptation. A temptation for evil.

Predator pulled off the road and surveyed the farmhouse. It was a good half a mile down a dirt road. Barren fields surrounded the house. Those fields spread far and wide until they abutted a forest. A barn stood to the right of the house. The barn had no doors and appeared to have been abandoned to the elements. The farmhouse wasn't in much better shape. An old, rusted truck parked in front of the porch told Predator that somebody apparently still lived here.

Might as well give it a try, Predator thought. _Fortune favored the bold_.

# # # #

Nancy and Vanessa took seats in Maureen Mueller's office. It was pleasant room with homey touches, although, nothing personal. No pictures of Maureen and Mike. No pictures of her daughter Annette. The walls held certificates of achievement and Maureen's Real Estate License. The vibe was very professional.

Nancy retrieved a pen and notepad from her handbag and said, "Thank you again, Ms. Mueller, for agreeing to see us on such short notice."

Maureen flashed a brief grin that said, _yes, but please be quick. Time is money and you're wasting my time_.

Nancy questioned Maureen about her relationship with her nephew Wayne. Maureen said she didn't really know him that well. She'd only really ever seen him at Christmases and then, he'd been so painfully shy. Withdrawn was the best way to describe him. She'd never known him to have any friends. Perhaps, that was because he was so odd.

Nancy wrote something on her notepad and then said, "You helped Wayne get the home he's in."

"Yes." Maureen smiled as if to say, _see what a nice Aunt I am_. "I'd never turn away a family member," she purred.

Nancy returned the cat-like smile and thought, _you'd never turn away the money_.

Nancy asked a few more questions along this nonthreatening avenue and watched Maureen relax a little. See, this wasn't so bad. These questions were harmless.

Then Nancy segued to Maureen's daughter. "I'm sure you're aware that Vanessa and I interviewed your daughter, Annette, yesterday."

Maureen stiffened and Nancy saw the shields coming up. "Yes, Annette called me after you left. Obviously, you _now_ know the family secret." Maureen's tone was defensive and prickly.

"Yes, I do," Nancy said gently. She had to proceed carefully. One misstep and Maureen would terminate the interview. "I have a few more questions of a general nature."

That seemed to relax Maureen. Nancy saw the tension go out of the woman's shoulders. "I would like your impression of Dan Sagget," Nancy said.

"My impression?" Maureen almost laughed. "You know our family history so, you can imagine I wasn't particularly fond of him."

"Of course not," Nancy said and paused before adding, "I was hoping for a more descriptive view of him. Such as what he was like."

Maureen shook her head as if this whole interview disgusted her. "In my opinion, Dan was a worthless human being. He never made anything of himself. Never tried to. Just worked at the docks in the same ole job for over twenty years, as far as I know. He never gave Annette one bit of support for her daughter." Maureen turned stony, cold eyes on Nancy. "You want the truth? I suppose you do. That's why you're here. Well, I can't say I'm sad about Dan's murder and I don't think I'm the only one. I never knew Dan to have a friend. Seemed all Dolores ever talked about was all the people Dan made enemies of."

Nancy seized upon the introduction of Dolores. "I'm curious about Dolores Gage. What can you tell me about her? Were you two friends?"

Maureen appeared horrified by the suggestion. "Heavens, no." Memories from twenty years ago tumbled through her mind. "No, we were never friends. The only time I ever heard from Dolores was when she wanted something. Usually money. And that was usually around Christmas time. She'd call and ask if she could borrow a few bucks. I can still hear her voice, 'Just a few bucks, Maureen, so I can get something for the kids. You know I'm good for it.'"

Vanessa leaned forward and asked, "Did she ever repay you?"

Maureen gave Vanessa a kindly smile, one she probably used on customers. "No, she never once paid me back, but every year I'd give her 'a few bucks.'"

Nancy asked as delicately as possible, "Did you give her money even after you found out about your daughter and Dan?"

Maureen drew in a deep breath and squared her shoulders. "No, by the time Annette told Mike and me the truth, Dolores and Dan were separated. Dolores married Randy Gage soon after that and I didn't hear much from her. Maybe the occasional Christmas card."

Nancy asked some follow up questions and ended the interview. She rose from her chair and Vanessa did the same.

"Thank you again for meeting us," Nancy said. "We'll see ourselves out."

Now, it was Vanessa's turn to play her role. She turned to Maureen and said, "Oh, by the way, I was wondering if there are any sporting goods' stores nearby? It's my fiancé's birthday and I'd like to get him a gift. He's an avid outdoors' man."

Maureen gave the question some thought. "You mean a place that caters to men?"

"Yes, that's exactly the kind of place I mean." Vanessa beamed.

"Then you want Ralph's Sporting Goods. It's in Ames. That's about twenty miles from here. I can give you directions. My husband, Mike, loves the place."

"Then it's the place I need," Vanessa declared.

Maureen wrote down the directions and handed them to Vanessa.

"Thank you very much," Vanessa said, taking the note. "And have a nice day."

Nancy and Vanessa departed the Real Estate office quickly. Once they were back in the car buckling in, Vanessa – an anxious smile on her face – turned to Nancy. "How'd I do?"

Nancy started the car and grinned at Vanessa. "You were perfect and I think you got a key piece of information."

"I did?"

Nancy backed the car out of its parking space. "Yes, and Joe needs the name of that sporting goods store and the directions as soon as possible."

Vanessa's eyes widened with surprise. "Should I text him the information now? I mean, right now?"

Nancy nodded as she drove. "Yes, definitely."

# # # #

The old man heard the car coming down the road and looked out the window. He didn't recognize the car. It wasn't his son's or daughter's vehicles. So, who the hell was this?

The old man yanked on his jacket and settled a baseball cap on his graying head. Then he got his shotgun, made sure it was loaded, and prepared to meet his uninvited visitor.

Predator parked near the old, rusted truck. He saw the old man come out of the house with the shotgun.

Predator got out of the car with his hands in the air. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. I don't mean you any trouble, sir. I got a flat tire." Predator tipped his head toward the rear of his car.

"There in the back. I was wondering if you could help me. You got a phone I could use?"

"A phone?" Suspicion danced in the old man's voice. "All you young people got cell phones nowadays."

Predator chuckled good-naturedly. "Yeah, we do, but don't mean we're real smart about keeping 'em charged. I been out fishing and camping and my phone's dead."

The old man pointed at Predator's car with the shotgun. "You can charge it in the car. You just plug it in, there in the dash. I see my son do it all the time." The suspicion never left the old man's eyes.

"Yep, that's right," Predator agreed with a nod. "But I lost the damn cord while I was fishing. Can't find it." Predator could see the old man wasn't going to give in easy. "Hey, if you let me leave my car here, I can walk to a gas station. How far is it to the nearest station?"

Predator saw the old man waver and start to think it over it. The shotgun lowered a bit, became less threatening.

"I got some tire sealant in the garage." The old man jerked his head to the left. "It'll probably fix your tire good enough to get you to the gas station. Station's ten miles down the road."

Predator lowered his hands. "I appreciate the help, sir."

Predator pulled a shoelace out of his back pocket as he followed the old man to the garage. Predator had tied two laces together to make one long one.

The moment the man stepped into the garage, Predator slipped the shoelace over the old man's neck and pulled it taunt. The shotgun fell on the cement floor with a loud clatter. The old man twisted and gasped and gagged as he tried to dig his fingers under the shoelace.

Predator wrestled him to the floor and put a large hand around the man's throat. "I can kill you now. Crash your neck with my bare hands. You want that?" Predator squeezed the man's throat to prove his point and growled, "Well, you want that?"

The old man shook his head. He was dazed and fighting for air. The shoelace was still tight around his neck.

"Good, then we're going to do things my way," Predator said.

# # # #

Predator secured the old man to the dinette chair with zip ties. The man had to be about 75 and the fear in his eyes told Predator he would comply with Predator's orders. The man was lucky to be alive. To still be breathing. Predator's only reason for keeping the man alive was because of the possibility someone – someone the old man knew – might come to the house. Someone might stop by to check on the old man. People did that for an old man living alone. They stopped by to make sure the old fart had groceries and was eating right.

Predator figured it was best to have the old man available to answer the door or the phone. That way people would assume he was okay, that he hadn't gone missing or gotten hurt.

Predator smiled at the last part. The old man had gotten hurt. Anyone could see that by the red and purple lines crisscrossing his neck.

"What you got to eat around here?" Predator asked.

The old man nodded at the refrigerator. "Sandwich stuff's in there." His voice was raspy and weak.

Predator made himself a sandwich and sat at the table. He had plans to make. Plans that involved Joe Hardy.

* * *

 _A/N: Thank you all for the reviews on the last chapter. Sorry there was a bit of a delay in getting this chapter posted. I've been getting ready for a trip to Europe. I'll be in London and France for the next 10 days. But once I'm home I'll be back at this story to finish it up. We have the big finale coming. ;) Take care everyone and enjoy your summer!_


	47. Chapter 47

Chapter 47

Joe and Frank climbed out of Frank's SUV and scanned their immediate surroundings. Mike Mueller and his wife lived on the outskirts of town on several acres of land. The house and land was quite nice. A detached garage stood apart from the house. A walkway led from the garage to a side door of the house. Joe thought it would be a pain to navigate that walkway in the winter when there was freezing wind, snow, and ice.

Joe saw a large storage shed in the far back corner of the backyard. It looked like a good place to store tools and equipment. Lawn mower, snow blower, rakes, shovels. Maybe even an ax.

Mike Mueller greeted the brothers at the front door. He was in his late fifties and his hair was gray and thin on top. His expression was sour, edging into a sneer. It was clear he did not relish this meeting. He waved the brothers inside, led them to the living room, and halfheartedly motioned them to the sofa. Joe and Frank sat on the long sofa side-by-side. Mike eased onto a recliner opposite them and folded his arms across his chest.

Definitely a hostile witness, Joe decided. Still, Joe was determined to ask questions and get answers. Frank had his notepad and pen ready. He took notes while Joe conducted the interview. Joe ran through the usual set-up. He thanked Mr. Mueller for his time and asked about his employment.

Mike said he was a retired maintenance worker, he'd worked for the city of Healy for thirty-one years. An accident on the job had forced him to retire last summer. He now collected a small disability check in addition to state retirement and had plenty of free time. There were days when he needed something to fill his time. Not another job, though. Instead, he helped Maureen on occasion. Some of the houses she listed needed fixing up before they could be put on the market. Mike was happy to do the work. He was handy with tools.

Joe replayed that phrase in his mind, _handy with tools,_ then switched to questions about Wayne. "Tell me, Mr. Mueller, were you close to your nephew?"

"Wayne?" Mike sneered.

"Yes, Wayne Banyan," Joe said. "Before he was arrested, did you visit him? Maybe have him over for Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner."

Mike flashed a dirty little grin, one that said Joe was barking up the wrong tree. "You said you knew Wayne in the Army, right?"

Joe nodded politely. "Yes sir, I did."

Mike leaned forward in his recliner, his grin growing, becoming ugly. "Well, tell me, he have any friends in the Army? Besides you."

Joe knew what Mike Mueller was getting at. Wayne was a loner. An odd ball. "No, Wayne didn't socialize much."

Mike chuckled. "Right, that's Wayne through and through. Likes to be alone. Doesn't need other people. I never knew him to have any friends. Too weird, if you ask me."

Joe leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs. Now he and Mike were eye to eye. "Tell me, Mr. Mueller, do you know anyone who would want to frame Wayne for the murder of Dan Sagget and Dolores Gage?"

Mike flinched like the question had shocked him. Then he shook his head and slumped back in his recliner. "Nah, I don't know anyone. Like I said, Wayne doesn't have any friends. Except for you apparently." Mike frowned at Joe as an idea occurred to him. "What's got you thinking someone framed him? Why Wayne sat in his house and told me and Connie that he'd planned on killing Dan and his mother. Said he'd thought about it for years. That sounds like a confession to me."

Joe stared at the older man. "Not exactly, Mr. Mueller. Under the law, what Wayne said would be considered intent. He told you and Connie that he had _plans_ to kill Dan and his mother. He did not say he had actually killed them. Correct?"

Mike's eyes narrowed and a muscle twitched in his cheek. "Semantics."

"The actual words are important in a court of law," Joe said evenly.

Fifteen minutes later the interview was finished and Joe and Frank were in the SUV. They were on the highway headed back to Healy.

Frank said, "For someone on disability Mike Mueller looked awfully healthy to me."

Joe nodded. "Healthy enough to swing an ax that's for sure. Did you see all the wood stacked up by the side of his garage?"

Frank kept his eyes on the road as he answered. "I did, but he could've had that wood delivered. We can't assume he chopped it himself."

"Yeah," Joe said softly. "Still, I got the impression Mike was holding back. He wasn't telling us everything he knew. It was like he was leaving out vital information."

"I got the same impression," Frank said.

Joe's phone pinged and he pulled it off his belt. "A text from Vanessa," he told Frank and read it silently to himself. "Turn around, bro. We're going to Ames. Seems Mike wasn't completely truthful with us about having a favorite sporting goods store."

"Now, there's a surprise." Frank laughed, checked the road both ways, and did a U-turn. As he accelerated down the highway, he asked, "What's in Ames?"

"Ralph's Sporting Goods Store," Joe said. "According to Mike's wife, he loves the place."

# # # #

Joe came out of Ralph's Sporting Goods and walked to Frank's SUV. The wind was blowing hard and the air had turned bitterly cold. Joe held his jacket together with his good hand until he got to the vehicle then he used the hand to open the passenger's door and slide inside, out of the wind and cold.

Frank was still in the store talking to the manager, Clint Hobart. The brothers had the evidence they needed. Now it was time to call Detective Ziegler.

Joe rested his injured arm on the armrest between the seats and laid his phone on his thigh. He punched in Ziegler's number and waited.

Five rings and, finally, Ziegler answered. "Hardy, this better be urgent. I'm in the middle of an interrogation with Colonel Charles. The man has some very interesting stories."

"I bet he does," Joe said "and I wouldn't call unless I had something important. Something I know you're going to want to hear."

"Okay, tell me what it is."

"You know how you've been looking for a store where axes, gloves, and a burner phone are sold?"

"Yeah," Ziegler said, sounding impatient, maybe a little bored. "Police officers have been to every store in Healy. We haven't come up with anything yet. No leads."

"That's because you've been looking in the wrong town," Joe said.

"Nice try, Hardy, but I've alerted nearby towns about those purchases, too. If anyone bought those items the store would have contacted the Healy Police Department by now."

"Yeah, I'm sure that's true," Joe said. "But what happens when the killer is a regular customer and he's shopped at a particular store for years? It's his favorite place. Hell, he knows all the clerks and they all know him. Everyone's on a first name basis. In the clerks' eyes, this guy is harmless. They've seen him for years. He comes in in early September and makes his normal annual purchase. Axes and gloves for wood chopping, and a burner phone for his fall camping trip. No red flags there, right?"

Joe heard Ziegler hiss and let out a curse. "You've got to be kidding me, Hardy. And you found this store?"

"I'm sitting outside Ralph's Sporting Goods Store in Ames. Frank's inside with the manager, guarding a receipt dated a week before the murder of Dan Sagget. The purchase was for three axes, three pairs of gloves, and one burner phone."

"Three axes?" Ziegler's voice quivered.

"Yeah," Joe said, "my guess is the third ax was for his home. Frank and I were at his house this morning. He has a wood burning fireplace and a stack of chopped wood outside his garage. My guess is he chopped the wood himself. He also has a storage shed in the backyard where I think you'll find the third ax. He bought three of the same brand. You should be able to match it to the other two you have in evidence."

"Damn. Well, hot damn. This is good, Hardy. Real good." Ziegler paused a beat to organize his thoughts, then said, "Okay, stay put. I'm sending an officer to get a statement from the store manager and to get that receipt. Don't leave until you talk to the officer."

"Will do," Joe said. He was watching the wind sway branches on the big fir trees that lined the parking lot.

"I'll also get a search warrant for that shed. Whose house is this?"

"Mike Mueller's. He's Wayne Banyan's uncle and Dolores Gage's brother," Joe informed Ziegler.

"What?" The word came out as a strangled cry.

Joe told Ziegler about Mike Mueller's daughter Annette and the child she had had with Dan Sagget. "My guess," Joe said, "is that Mueller has hated Dan Sagget for years. I'd say that hate has festered and grown. Finally, it became uncontrollable. You know what Freud said, unexpressed emotions never die. They just lay buried – _alive_ – and come forth later, in uglier ways. My opinion? That's what happened here."

"But why kill his sister, Dolores?" Ziegler asked.

Joe sighed. "She knew about Dan and Annette and did nothing. Never said anything to Mike or his wife Maureen. I don't think Dolores really cared about anyone but herself. She divorced Dan shortly after his affair with Annette and never looked back."

"Okay, okay. This all sounds good. You've given me motive, evidence, and a name. I'll take it from here, Hardy. I'll get on that search warrant ASAP. You wait for the officer and then you're free to leave. I'll call you later tonight and let you know what we find in the shed."

"Thanks, glad I could help." Joe ended the call and put the phone back on his belt holster. He got out of the SUV and headed for the store. Time to tell Frank that an officer was on the way.

The wind blew Joe's hair as he walked to the entrance. It had been a helluva day. A good day. Yes, his arm still bothered him. He couldn't do any heavy lifting with it, but it was getting better. Definitely moving in the right direction. He just needed to give it a few more days of rest.

# # # #

Predator set the glass of water on the table in front of the old man. "There. Water, just like you asked."

Predator sat down at the table. He looked at his written notes and debated with himself whether to set the plan in motion tonight or wait until tomorrow night.

The old man's throat hurt and his whole body ached. He stared at the glass of water and tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. The glass was out of reach. His hands were zip-tied to the chair. The man sitting at the old man's table was cruel. Not even human. The old man asked himself, what kind of man denied a fellow human a glass of water? The answer came quickly, the kind you never wanted to meet.

* * *

 _A/N: I apologize for how short this chapter is, but I wanted to get something posted so you knew that I was back from my trip and working on this story. An extra special thank you to everyone who has left a review on this story and especially the previous chapter. Sorry, I wasn't able to personally respond to those reviews. My trip was fabulous, and yes, I was a bit jetlagged for a few days when I first got home. The London Tower was wonderful. Seeing the Crown Jewels was awe inspiring. Then I was off to the French Alps for five days. So gorgeous there, but they were experiencing a massive heatwave. It was 98 degrees and no AC! It was nice to come home to an air conditioned house. :)_


	48. Chapter 48

Chapter 48

Predator lifted the old man's shotgun and sighted down the barrel. Then he pointed it at the old man and put his finger on the trigger. The old man trembled, although, to his credit, he put on a defiant face.

Predator lowered the gun and smiled a hyena smile. "Not going to kill you. Not yet anyway."

Predator laid the gun on the table alongside the rest of the weapons he had collected. He'd gone through the old man's house and found a box of ammo for the shotgun. That was nice and a pump-action shotgun was a fine weapon. It was the weapon of choice for many police forces. It was easy to use, used a variety of ammo, and you didn't have to be particularly accurate when shooting it. The scattershot nature of the shots meant you were likely to at least wing your prey. That's what Predator was hoping for, to at least wing Hardy or whoever he brought with him. Wound them. Make them vulnerable and then get in close and finish them off with the handgun Predator had taken from Boxberger's house.

Predator's gaze traveled over the other items on the table. His Ka-Bar knife, Marine Corps Issue, gleamed in the light. It had done a number on Boxberger. Predator momentarily wondered if Deke was alive or dead. The blood had been pouring out of him when Predator had left him on the kitchen floor. That much blood loss usually meant certain death.

Back to the weapons. Predator had found something that truly made him smile. A combat Tomahawk, a brutal and effective hand-to-hand weapon. Fifteen inches of killing power. It had a hatchet blade on one side of the head and a razor sharp spike on the other.

"What you doing with a combat Tomahawk?" Predator asked the old man.

The old man lifted his head and met Predator's dark glare. "My son gave it to me. He was in the Marine Corps."

Predator laughed. "Me, too. I killed a lot of people."

The old man looked him straight in the eye. "You going to kill me?"

Predator grinned. "Thinking about it."

The old man nodded slowly to himself as if he'd assumed as much.

Predator picked up Deke's phone. Might as well call Hardy and set things in motion. Predator glanced at his weapons again. He had four at his disposal. The shotgun, a handgun, the Tomahawk, and his Ka-Bar knife. All were good. All were deadly. They should be enough to facedown Hardy and whoever came with him. So, why wait until tomorrow when today was almost over?

No more waiting Predator told himself and punched in a number. It was a number to a rental home. Boxberger had called it a few days ago. Predator figured it was the number to the rental home Hardy was staying in. Predator couldn't think of any other reason Boxberger would want to call that number.

# # # #

It was late afternoon. Joe stood at the sliding glass doors and watched the trees dance in the wind. Thick, gray clouds blanketed the sky. Snow was on the way. Joe felt in his bones. He turned from the window of the rental house and took in his surroundings. Nancy paced in front of the living room sofa, talking on the phone. She was talking to Monica LaMarca, Wayne Banyan's lawyer, telling her about Joe and Frank's theory. The theory that Mike Mueller was the killer and had killed Dan Sagget and Dolores Gage. Monica was a go-getter and Joe guessed she would be at the police station first thing in the morning demanding Wayne's release.

Joe's arm was in the sling again. The pain had returned with a vengeance this afternoon. Vanessa had given him a dose of pain meds and an antibiotic an hour ago. Now, Joe waited for the pain to subside and Detective Ziegler to call. Ziegler was currently searching Mueller's house and property looking for the third ax, the one Mueller had kept for himself. That ax would be the nail in Mike Mueller's coffin.

The case was coming to an end. Almost. There was still one person out there – Richard Bradley – and Joe wished he knew where the man was. Joe looked over at Vanessa. She and Frank were at the kitchen sink doing the dishes. Vanessa and Nancy had brought pizza home for dinner. Two large pizzas and not a crumb was left. Just dirty dishes. Frank and Vanessa were smiling. Frank said something funny and Vanessa laughed. It warmed Joe's heart to see Vanessa happy. This was the way it should always be .. Vanessa safe and happy.

Bulka trotted up and head bumped Joe's thigh. Unconsciously, he reached down and patted the dog's head. Ran his fingers over her silky fur. He sensed her desire to return to her home and master. She had done well with Joe, Frank, and the girls, but ultimately, Bulka wanted Wayne. Wayne was her human.

Joe bent down and stroked Bulka's head. "You'll be home soon, girl. I promise."

Bulka moaned and licked Joe's face. Not so pleasant he thought. He could've done without the doggie breath, but he'd felt Bulka's love in that lick and hoped she felt his love in his lavish strokes.

The house phone rang – the one in the living room – and everyone froze. Everyone quickly traded glances, frowning and wondering. A sense of foreboding washed over Joe and his skin tingled as he pushed to his feet. The last time the house phone had rung it had been Boxberger and that had not turned out well. Certainly, not for Joe. His arm throbbed as if to remind him.

"Weird," Nancy said. "Who would call the house phone instead of one of our cell phones?"

Frank picked up a dishtowel and dried his hands. "Maybe it's Ms. Bentley, the woman who owns this place."

Sounds reasonable, Joe thought, but no, he knew it wasn't Ms. Bentley. "I'll get it," he said and grabbed the handset. "Hello."

The others gathered around him, curious. Joe held the handset out so they could all hear.

A male voice greeted them. "Joseph Hardy? I'm looking for a Joseph Hardy."

Dread churned in Joe's stomach. "This is Joe Hardy. Who are you?"

"Predator," the voice rasped in a harsh whisper.

Joe saw the color drain from Vanessa's face. She sank onto the sofa and mouthed, _It's him_.

Nancy sat beside Vanessa and whispered, "Are you sure?"

Vanessa, eyes big and wide, nodded. "Positive."

Joe spoke into the handset, "Your real name is Richard Bradley. Or do you prefer Big Bad Brad?"

A pause and then, "You know that, huh? Guess you've seen my service record."

"I have," Joe confirmed. "It appears you had problems in the Marine Corps. You weren't one of the few, the proud. Pretty much the exact opposite."

A plaintive wail came over the phone line. " _Help! Help me! He's got a shotgun and a knife -_ "

A loud thud ended the old man's cries for help.

A powerful surge of adrenaline rose up in Joe and he yelled, "Who was that?"

"No one," Predator barked.

Joe heard the old man groan in the background and thanked God the man was still alive. "Where are you, Bradley, you son of a bitch."

"I'm going to tell you exactly where I am, Hardy. I want you to find me. I want to break your effing neck and put a bullet in your head."

Joe's spine prickled. "Don't hold back, Bradley, tell me how you really feel."

Predator chuckled. "Yeah, honesty is good, bro. Makes a man feel good inside when he's being honest, you know what I mean."

"I do," Joe said, "and I honestly feel the same way about you, you psycho. A bullet in your brain would make the world a better place."

Predator laughed. "Right. Okay, enough jawing. Let's get down to business." Predator gave Joe directions to the farmhouse and said, "I'll be waiting, Hardy. Don't make me wait too long. This old man's starting to get on my nerves. No telling what I'll do if I have too much time on my hands."

"Sit tight," Joe said. "I'm on my way."

"One more thing, Hardy. No cops. I see a cop car and the old man gets one right between the eyes. We clear?"

"We're clear." Joe gently placed the handset on the phone. He was amazed at how calm he was, but then, he knew what he had to do. Erase Big Bad Brad from the earth. Some people didn't deserve to live.

"I know that look," Frank said. There was a wariness in his voice, a note of caution.

Joe licked his lips and the angles of his face hardened. "The world doesn't need men like Bradley in it."

Frank blew out a breath and crossed his arms. "I can't argue with you on that, but if you're planning on being judge, jury, and executioner? Well, then I might have something to say about it."

Joe peered at his brother through narrowed eyes. "Nothing you say will change my mind."

"I thought not." Frank jutted his chin at Joe's wounded arm. "You're down an arm and in _no_ shape to face Bradley alone. I'm going with you."

Joe gave the idea a split-second of thought. "Okay. I'm primary. You're backup. Those are the rules.

Frank shrugged like he didn't care. "Fine by me."

Joe knew that Frank cared plenty and that Frank had to be thinking the same thing Joe was. They had failed to bring their bulletproof vests and helmets. This was not the way to face an armed man. A man who had proven his willingness to kill. He'd attempted murder twice and was well on his way to a third attempt. He might succeed this time.

Nancy and Vanessa, sitting on the sofa, exchanged looks. Nancy rose and said, "Vanessa and I are coming, too."

Joe shot her a scowl that said, back off.

Nancy responded with reason and logic. "Think about it, Joe. Bradley wants you at the farmhouse. Why? He gets you to there while he's on his way here to find Vanessa. Why else would he give you directions? Why's he making it so easy to find him?"

"You bring up a good point," Joe conceded with a low growl. He hadn't wanted Vanessa involved in this confrontation, but maybe it was best to have her near him. That way he could make sure she was safe.

"I'm calling Ziegler," Frank said. He had his phone in his hand. "Ziegler needs to know what's going on. He can send a couple of uniforms to the farmhouse."

"You heard what Bradley said," Joe hissed through gritted teeth. "No cops."

"We're fools if we don't involve the police," Frank countered. "We're playing this one smart and, _smart,_ is getting the police involved. Face it, we're dealing with a psycho, we need backup."

Joe waved his good arm in the air in exasperation. "Fine. Call him. Tell him to make sure the uniforms stay out of sight. We don't want the old man's blood on our hands."

Vanessa sprang off the sofa. "We have to save that old man."

Joe looked into her pleading eyes. "We will." He prayed he was right.

# # # #

Joe and Vanessa were in their bedroom. Joe removed his sling and Vanessa helped him put on a sweatshirt and his shoulder holster.

Vanessa tugged on the shoulder holster's straps and said, "Tight enough?"

"Perfect." Joe kissed her lightly on the cheek. "Thanks, babe, and I'm glad you're coming with us."

"Really?" One delicate eyebrow arched. "You looked horrified when Nancy suggested that she and I join you and Frank."

Joe dipped his head before looking and into Vanessa's pale blue eyes. "Just took me a minute to get used to the idea."

"Right," Vanessa said, trying to hide half a smile. "You're a horrible liar, Joe Hardy."

He put a hand on her waist and lowered his voice. "With you I never want to be a good liar. I never want to lie to you at all."

Vanessa wrapped her arms around his neck. "That was a beautiful thing to say, babe, and I never want to lie to you either. Have I told you lately that I love you?"

Joe slipped his bad arm and good one around her waist. He wanted her close. He liked her close and ready to kiss. "Not in the last ten minutes. I was beginning to wonder."

"Ahem." Frank stood in the bedroom doorway. "Hate to break up this happy moment, but Ziegler just called. There's been a traffic accident in town so he can only send one uniform to the farmhouse. Oh, and it's started to snow. Bulka's having great fun chasing snowflakes in the backyard."

# # # #

It was dusk. The world was awash in gray light. They wore the warmest clothing they had, light jackets over sweatshirts or sweaters. They climbed into Frank's SUV and began the long drive to the farmhouse. Bulka was in the back in her doggie carrier. Nancy and Vanessa were in the back seat, hands tucked into jacket pockets, staring out the windows, watching the snow fall. Frank drove and Joe sat in the passenger's seat, cradling his injured arm in his lap. He'd decided to leave the sling at the rental house. More freedom of movement without it.

Snowflakes pelted the windshield, turned to water, and slid toward the hood of the SUV. Frank turned on the wipers and nudged the heater up a notch.

Everyone sat quietly, each playing out scenarios in their mind. What to do if this happened or that happened. Fall back on your training was the answer and that had Joe worried. Vanessa had no training or experience to fall back on. She was a civilian going on a combat mission. When things went south – and they would because they _always_ did – how would she react? How could he ensure her safety?

Joe considered Nancy's theory. Maybe Bradley was on his way to the rental house. Maybe that was his plan. Maybe Joe, Frank, and the women would arrive at the farmhouse and rescue the old man. Joe mentally shook his head. That didn't feel right. Too easy. If anything, they would arrive and find the old man dead. The dread Joe had felt earlier came back in a rush covered in a layer of urgency. An old man's life hung in the balance.

Joe wondered if he was missing something. Some bigger picture he couldn't see. Was this all a wild goose chase? A game? Another shadow game? Joe had had enough of those.

There was only one thing Joe knew to be one hundred percent true; Bradley wanted to kill him. And being completely honest with himself, Joe fully intended to end Bradley's existence. One less bad guy in the world.

Frank slowed the vehicle. They were approaching the mile-marker where they had arranged to meet the uniformed officer. They spotted the patrol car nestled beside the road among a backdrop of woods. No lights on. No idling exhaust smoke. The white vehicle with black lettering was almost lost in the fading light.

"Drive past," Joe suddenly said to Frank. Then to Nancy and Vanessa, "Get down, this doesn't look right."

Nancy reached out, wrapped an arm around Vanessa's shoulders, and pulled her down onto the seat. Nancy covered Vanessa's body with her own as she peered up at the windows.

Frank drove past the patrol car – not too slowly – didn't want to draw attention to themselves. Joe got a good look at the driver's side window and swallowed hard. A large splotch covered the glass. It looked like someone had thrown a cup of coffee against the window. Thick, dark rivulets ran down the window and Joe knew it wasn't coffee.

"Dammit," he hissed and added a few other expletives.

"What?" Nancy cried from the back seat.

"Officer down," Frank said and prepared to do a U-turn.

"Stay down," Joe ordered the women. "Bradley could still be out there, watching." Waiting for us, waiting to gun us down, he thought as his eyes raked the trees.

Frank's head was on a swivel. He scanned the woods looking for threats. He was hunched over the steering wheel, trying to make himself small, less of a target.

Joe unholstered his handgun. Every nerve in his body hummed, every sense was hyper alert. He was thrown back to Afghanistan, to a house clearing mission, him baking in his Interceptor body armor. He and Wayne – and their whole team – rifles up and ready, the team moving in sync, peeking in the deepest, darkest corners of houses, waiting for something to explode and someone to die. Who would die tonight?

Frank made the U-turn and drove back to the patrol car, drove right up to it. Got his window aligned with the patrol car's window and looked inside. Night was settling in fast, snow was gathering on the hood and windows. Still, Frank could make out a slumped figure in the driver's seat.

"Well?" Joe said never taking his eyes off surrounding woods. Bradley could pop out from behind a tree at any moment and take a shot.

Frank jerked his gaze away from the patrol car. "Someone's in there. Slumped over. It's too dark for me to see if they're alive."

Nancy lifted her head and peered out her window.

"We have to check on him," Frank said. "And report this to Ziegler."

"You're right," Joe agreed. Take care of the wounded first although, he preferred hunting down Bradley first.

"Frank," Nancy said, "I can check on the officer. If you position your SUV with enough space between the two vehicles, I can open my door and get out."

"What? No." Frank's dark brow furrowed.

"Listen," Nancy pleaded, "my door will shield me. I'll open the patrol car's door and it will shield me on the other side."

"You'll be wedged between the two open doors," Vanessa said, catching on to Nancy's plan.

"Exactly," Nancy said. "And the patrol car door is likely to be bulletproof."

Frank turned to Joe for advice.

Joe shrugged. "Like you said, we have to check on the officer. Nancy's plan sounds reasonably safe to me."

"I can check on the officer," Frank said. "It doesn't have to be Nancy."

Joe's response was quick and strident. "You're in charge of the vehicle. Your hands stay on the steering wheel and your eyes on the surroundings. Nancy knows what she's doing. We'll do this her way."

Frank remembered that Joe was in charge and there was no further discussion. Nancy pulled a pair of latex gloves out of her handbag and tugged them on. Frank repositioned the SUV and turned off the dome light. Nancy opened her door and stepped out into the falling snow. She crouched so that her head was below the window part of her car door. The door was not bulletproof, but it would slow down a bullet. Especially one from a distance. Nancy grabbed the patrol car's handle and opened the door all the way. The dome light snapped on and bathed the interior in harsh white light. Nancy saw the officer slumped to his right, his right hand outstretched like he had been reaching for the radio mic. Blood covered his face, neck, and shoulders. The blood was fresh and flowing. Nancy also saw the bullet hole in the passenger's window. So, no bulletproof glass. Nancy realized she was lit up like a Christmas tree and vulnerable.

She dropped down and pressed gloved fingers to the officer's neck and felt for a pulse. There! She called out to others, "He's alive!"

It was decided that Nancy would stay with the wounded officer. She had been able to use the police radio in the patrol car and talk with dispatch. An ambulance was on the way. It was three minutes out. Detective Ziegler and the Police Chief were being informed of the situation.

Joe wasn't about to wait for Ziegler and backup. He opted for action and told Frank to drive to the farmhouse. Well, not right up to it, but near it. Frank argued saying he didn't like leaving Nancy behind. They could use her and her gun. A team of three armed individuals was better than a team of two against a crazed psychopath.

Joe reminded him in a hard-edged voice, "I'm primary and you're backup. Those were the rules. You agreed to them."

Nancy chimed in, siding with Joe. "Lives are at stake, Frank. You and Joe need to go. We're not far from the farmhouse. Bradley could be there."

Vanessa added, in a voice quaking with emotion, "The old man. I keep thinking about him. On the phone he begged for help. We need to help him. He could be like that officer, shot and wounded, lying on the floor of his house bleeding." Vanessa could easily envision herself in the old man's shoes. If Nancy had not rescued her, Vanessa could be the one lying – bleeding and battered – in a farmhouse somewhere.

"It's three against one," Joe told Frank. "The women and I agree it's time to go. We have to find Bradley and end his reign of terror."

Frank finally put the SUV in gear and drove away. Nancy was in left in the patrol car, crouched in the back seat, her handgun drawn. Vanessa would be the communications person. She would stay in touch with Nancy via their cell phones. Vanessa would inform Nancy of where they parked and Nancy could then direct Ziegler and his team to that location.

It was a plan. A good plan. And, Joe told himself, it would go to hell the minute Bradley showed up.

* * *

 _A/N: I am so, so sorry for the delay in posting. I had intended for this chapter to include the big show down, but it was getting too long. There are two more chapters. The next one will be the show down and the chapter after that will be the weddings. It's way past time to finish this story!_

 _A quick thank you to everyone who has left a review. I so appreciate all your kind words and I'm happy that so many of you have given this story a chance. A story with quite a bit of military terms and situations in it and Joe as the main character working with not only Frank, but a military working dog. Thank you again for giving the story a shot. Hope everyone is having a great summer!_


	49. Chapter 49

Chapter 49

Helluva a night, Ziegler thought as he drove to the farmhouse, pushing the speed limit. Goddamn helluva night. First a major traffic accident that had claimed one life and seriously injured two more. Two ambulances were at that scene along with several police officers who were directing traffic and coordinating with the wrecking crew for cleanup. Then Ziegler had gotten the call from Frank Hardy, informing him about Bradley and the farmhouse.

Jesus! Another major disaster. Ziegler wiped sweat off his brow and tried to focus on the road. Two catastrophes in one night. That was a lot for one small town to handle. Healy had a small police force and a small hospital. Tonight, the police and medical personnel currently stretched to the max. Healy only had two ambulances. Those two ambulances and their crews had to get the traffic accident victims to the hospital and then race to the farmhouse for a wounded police officer and a victim inside the house.

Ziegler held the steering wheel in a death grip and said a silent pray, God help us all. Healy could not afford another disaster. Not tonight.

# # # #

Nancy attended to the injured officer as best she could. She found rolls of gauze in a first aid kit under the passenger's seat, folded them into a thick pad, and shoved them under the officer's neck to slow the bleeding. He groaned when she touched him and that gave her hope he would survive.

Now, Nancy was scrunched down, sitting on her heels, in the foot-well of the back of the patrol car. Her position was uncomfortable and her legs were starting to cramp. She hardly noticed though. Her eyes darted from one window to the next, her Glock 17 moving and taking aim along with her rapidly shifting gaze. If Bradley dared show his face, she would shoot first and ask questions later. The only real question would be, _why_ , and Nancy had a feeling Bradley would never answer that question.

Adrenaline charged through her body and sweat beaded on her forehead. Her hands were a little cold. Another discomfort she shrugged off as she checked the windows, looking for shadows, trying to catch a glimpse of movement out there in the cold, dark night. It wasn't easy. Snowflakes gathered on the passenger's side windows and blocked most of the view. The wire cage separating the front seats from the back obstructed her sightlines.

Nancy's phone lay on the seat, the line open to Vanessa. If Nancy were to scream or shoot, Vanessa would hear it.

A thump outside caused Nancy to jerk. The noise had come from the driver's side of the car. The road was on that side. Nancy aimed her Glock at the window and held her breath.

"Miss Drew?" a male voice yelled.

Nancy eased herself onto the seat, keeping the Glock ready in a two-handed, white knuckled grip.

"Miss Drew! It's Detective Ziegler." The voice grew louder as the man approached the vehicle.

A man's face appeared at the window and Nancy saw the badge on his jacket. The wail of an ambulance cut through the night and the tension in Nancy's shoulders and arms fell away. She lowered her Glock and exhaled the breath she had been holding. Help had arrived.

# # # #

"Ziegler's with Nancy," Vanessa told Joe and Frank. Relief and excitement sang in her voice.

Ziegler's deep baritone snaked through the phone line. "Hardy? Hardy, where are you?"

Vanessa handed the phone to Joe in the front seat.

"Almost at the farmhouse," Joe said. He dreaded what Ziegler might say next. Joe figured Ziegler was going to tell him to stand down, to let the police handle the situation from here on out. It was an order Joe didn't think he would follow.

"Good, good," Ziegler said. He sounded relieved, maybe even happy. "Listen, that's Hiram Preston's farmhouse you're headed to. His son, Jack, called the station about twenty minutes ago. Jack's there, at the farmhouse. When his dad didn't call at their usual five o'clock check-in time, Jack drove to the farmhouse and found his dad tied to a chair, bleeding. The old man was stabbed in the stomach and left for dead."

Joe cursed under his breath.

"Jack called for an ambulance and it's on its way. Hopefully, it'll get here in time. Jack said his old man's barely hanging on. So," a pause for breath and then, "here's what I need from you and your brother."

Joe waited, hope blossoming in his chest.

"I'm short on officers and manpower tonight, Hardy. I need you and your brother to guard the farmhouse. Make sure Bradley doesn't come back and go inside. Hiram, the old man, said Bradley left the house right after stabbing him. Miss Drew and me are getting ready to head your way, until we get there, you and Frank have to secure that farmhouse so the medics can get in and get to Hiram."

"No problem," Joe said, the tiniest of smiles turning up the corners of his mouth. Why did he like these moments so much? Could it be because he never felt more alive than when he was chasing and confronting bad guys?

Frank pulled the SUV under a canopy of snow covered branches and killed the engine.

Joe relayed their location to Ziegler. "We're parked to the south of the house. Tucked in under the trees. We're roughly 120 yards from the front porch."

Frank gave a sitrep (situational report). "Porch light's on and several lights are on inside."

"I'm checking in with the ambulance crew here," Ziegler said. "Then Miss Drew and me will head your way. ETA, fifteen minutes. Oh, and I called the Ames' Police Department. They're sending some officers, but they won't be here for another forty minutes or so."

Might not need them in forty minutes, Joe thought. If Joe had his way, Bradley might not be breathing then.

Joe ended the call and handed Vanessa her phone. It was suddenly silent in the dark SUV. Night had fallen and the snow had stopped. The glow from the porch light spread out like icy fingers across the flat land in front of the farmhouse. The glow lit up the driveway and the two vehicles parked in front of the porch. Out of the two vehicles, a truck and a sedan, Joe guessed the truck belonged to Hiram Preston. The sedan was likely a car Bradley had stolen.

"One of us needs to circle round to the back of the house," Frank said, snapping Joe out of his surveillance. "We need a set of eyes on the back door and windows."

Joe had been thinking the same thing. "Me. I'll go. You and Van need to get of out this vehicle, too. We're sitting ducks in here."

Frank nodded and scanned the area. "Up there, on the right. Looks like a pile of cleared brush. Van and I can hunker down behind that and keep an eye on the house."

Joe examined the spot. "Looks good to me. On three we all get out."

Bulka whined in the back. "Haven't forgotten you, girl," Joe said. "You're coming, too." Her ears and sense of smell would be invaluable tonight.

Joe counted to three and three doors opened simultaneously. Joe and Frank went to the back of the SUV. Vanessa stepped out of her door, shut it, and squatted down by the back, right tire. She scanned the surrounding trees as Joe had instructed her to. If anything moved, she was supposed to yell.

Frank opened the back of the SUV and lifted out his rifle. Joe unlatched the doggie carrier and Bulka scrambled free. She leaped to the ground excited, tail wagging. Frank shut the door and they all hustled to the brush pile. Once they were hunkered down behind the mound of discarded brush and tree branches, Joe gave Bulka a hand sign that meant _quiet_.

"Bradley could be hiding in one of those vehicles in front of the house," Frank whispered. He tucked the butt of his rifle into his shoulder, aimed the barrel at the sedan, and put an eye to the rifle's night vision scope.

Joe waited a few seconds before whispering, "See anything?"

"No, nothing." Frank sounded disappointed.

"How about footprints around the vehicles?" Joe asked.

Frank angled the scope toward the ground and searched for footprints in the thin layer of snow. "Nope, no prints."

"Okay," Joe said, low and soft, "Bradley's not in either of the vehicles, but he's out here .. somewhere." Joe's gaze drifted over the landscape, along the house, to the garage, among the trees and shrubs bordering the property. He watched for movement, color, anything out of place.

Frank used his scope and searched the snow covered ground, looking for footprints.

"Enough of this," Joe said. "Time for me to circle round to the back of the house."

Vanessa looked up at Joe as he rose. "Be careful."

"Always," Joe said. Bulka started to get to her feet and Joe signaled her down. "No, girl. Stay here."

A frown wrinkled Vanessa's forehead. "Shouldn't you take her with you?"

"No," Joe said, "I don't want her to get hurt. She can stay here and protect you and Frank."

Frank's expression said he did not agree, but he held his tongue.

Vanessa wrapped an arm around Bulka's neck and ruffled the dog's fur. Having the dog close gave her comfort. "Okay. I don't like it, but okay. Stay safe, Joe."

Joe turned and melted into the woods, his handgun in his right hand. The world turned different shades of gray, black, and white. After a few seconds, he felt submerged, cut off from everything, lost in a world of its own.

 _The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,_

 _But I have promises to keep,_

 _And miles to go before I sleep._

This new world had distinctive sights and sounds and Joe became attuned to them. He couldn't hear Vanessa or Bulka or Frank. They didn't exist. They were part of the _other_ world. The world Joe could not hear and did not inhabit. His ears were tuned to this new world and sought the sound of another man's heartbeat.

A chilly breeze lifted the collar of Joe's lightweight jacket. It was like the night was breathing hard, quivering with anxiety, waiting for what was to come.

Walking through the trees was rough, dark and impossible to see what he was stepping on. Joe concentrated on his footing and the ground. Here in the trees, there was little to no snow. Any footprints were hidden. Joe searched the snow covered ground beyond the trees, seeking those elusive footprints. And finally spotted them. Two dark impressions. They stood out in the white, white snow like a neon sign.

Joe dropped to a knee at the edge of the woods and studied the prints. Someone had walked up to the tree line and stopped. Strange. The prints faced the woods. There weren't any prints leading away, back to the farmhouse. Someone had stood here, at the edge of the woods, and then what? Been beamed up to the heavens?

Joe tipped his head back and looked at the sky. No, of course not, the solution suddenly dawning on him. The oldest trick in the book. Bradley had walked backwards in his own footsteps. The footprints were a distraction. A trap.

Pine trees to the left of Joe exploded and bark chips hit the side of his face a nano-second before he heard the crack of a gun. Joe dove for the ground and low-crawled farther into the woods. The gunshot had yanked him back to the real world, the world where Vanessa and Frank lived.

Wood chips exploded off another tree and another crack of the gun followed. Bradley was zeroing in on Joe. Damn good shooting, too, Joe thought as he slipped behind a large pine. He wouldn't mind a wider tree, but beggars couldn't be picky. He peeked around the trunk of the tree and saw Bradley sheltered behind the sedan's engine compartment. The densest part of the vehicle. Bradley's head barely crested the top of the hood as he sighted down the barrel of a shotgun.

Oh hell, this wasn't good. The shotgun was aimed at the brush pile where Vanessa, Frank, and Bulka were. Joe felt helpless, his handgun, a Beretta 92FS, had an effective firing range of 160 feet. Joe was right at that limit, maybe a little past it. No way could he hit Bradley at this distance, but he could hit the sedan. A bullet in the sedan would draw Bradley's attention away from Van and Frank and back to Joe.

Joe brought the Beretta up in a one-handed grip, centered the barrel of the gun on the sedan, and slid his index finger across the trigger. The sedan was a nice, big target.

 _Crack!_

Bradley fired the shotgun before Joe could pull his trigger. Vanessa screamed and Bulka barked. Joe's world exploded in color and lights, in rage and fury. He pulled the Beretta's trigger and put a round through the back window of the sedan, spider-webbing the glass.

Bradley ducked below the hood of the sedan and Joe snarled, angry at the world. Dammit, what had happened? Why had Vanessa screamed?

The phone on Joe's hip vibrated and he dropped into a crouch. Holstered his gun and fumbled the phone free.

"Van?"

"Frank's shot in the shoulder or arm. He isn't sure. He says he's fine and not to worry." She was relaying information fed to her by Frank.

Relief flooded Joe's body. Vanessa was unharmed and Frank, apparently, wasn't seriously wounded. He heard Frank curse in background.

"Nancy and Ziegler will be here in a few minutes." Vanessa's voice was remarkably calm. Composed. Joe admired her strength in that moment.

"Good," Joe said and caught movement at the sedan. Bradley sprang up and ran toward the woods. "Gotta go, Van. Bradley's on the move." Joe ended the call before Vanessa could respond.

Joe holstered his phone, unholstered his Beretta, and sprinted across the mushy snow. He ran in a crouch, diagonally, toward the farmhouse and vehicles parked in front of it. He was out in the open, no cover, racing to catch up to Bradley.

Bradley spun as he neared the trees, saw Joe coming and aimed the shotgun at him. Joe spotted a small hay baler and dove behind it. Buckshot peppered the snow covered ground and binged off the baler. Joe popped up a second later, peered over the top of the baler, and searched the area where he had last seen Bradley. The man was gone. Vanished into the woods.

Joe pushed to his feet and started running. He used whatever cover he could find. Bales of hay wrapped in a snow covered tarp. Dark shadows. The garage. An old water trough. Joe slipped and slide in the snow. Lost his footing and almost fell. His lungs burned from the cold and his arm reminded him it wasn't completely healed.

Joe slowed as he approached the woods. Got behind a thick bodied pine, put his back against the trunk, and panted. His breath plumed in front of his face and he realized how cold the air was. He was cold, too, his fingers and ears. So cold they hurt.

Joe thought about his mission in life, a strange thing to be thinking when you were getting ready to kill a man. But therein lay Joe's mission; getting rid of the bad guys of this world one-by-one. He'd take them out in threes and fours if given the opportunity. Joe's motto: take out the bad guys and do a little good in this world.

Joe got down on one knee beside the pine, brought his gun up, and scanned the woods. Bradley stepped out from behind a tree about sixty feet away and smiled. His white teeth gleamed in the faint light from the distance farmhouse's porch. The farmhouse. It was near and yet so far away. An old man was in there fighting for his life. Joe wondered when the ambulance would arrive.

Bradley threw down the shotgun. "I can see you're an old school kind of guy. I like that. Got lots of respect for that. You're like me. You like a duel. Two guys going at it hand-to-hand. Winner takes all. Am I right?"

Joe asked himself why he hadn't shoot Bradley. The man was standing there, pretty as you please, making a beautiful target at can't miss range.

Bradley laughed and reached back to get a weapon. Joe felt the Beretta twitch at the end of his outstretched hands. He took aim, let out a breath, and fired.

Bradley stepped sideways as he fired his own weapon. Actually, Boxberger's handgun.

Both men missed their targets and scrambled for a tree, their ears ringing. Joe peeked around his tree trunk, took aim at Bradley, and fired two shots. Both missed badly. Both had been rushed.

Bradley returned fire shooting up the ground and trees where Joe was hidden. Joe squeezed his body behind a pine and tried to count the rounds. How many rounds did Bradley have left? The rounds impacted the forest floor in rapid fire. Joe thought he counted five, maybe six, of them.

The shooting stopped and Joe peeled off the tree trunk. Peeked around it and fired. Five well placed rounds in the vicinity of where he had last seen Bradley. Wood chips and pine needles rained down. Joe held his breath, eyes darting left and right. Then Bradley popped out from behind a different tree and fired. Joe ducked and stayed down. He knelt on the ground, his knee soaking up the cold and that cold rippled up his body. Joe thought it through. Each man had about seven rounds left and each was determined to squander them. After that, it would be down to hand-to-hand combat.

Joe sprang off the ground, saw Bradley, and aimed and fired. Again and again. Bradley did the same. Each man throwing rounds down range and missing their targets. And then they were out. No more rounds.

Bradley threw down the handgun and a broad smile split his face. He tipped back his head and laughed like a hyena. His eyes were bright and shining when they came to rest on Joe. "Guess we do this the old school way. A duel. One of us is gonna die tonight, out here in these woods, and it ain't gonna be me."

Joe was tired. His bad arm ached from all the shooting. However, he wouldn't mind landing a few good punches on Bradley's face.

Bradley reached behind himself, pulled up the back of his jacket and brought out something long and angular. "I was real happy when I found this in the old man's house."

Fear zipped along Joe's spine. Bradley was holding a combat Tomahawk. A damn fine weapon. A single, lethal, piece of forged steel. Hatchet blade on one side and a nasty spike on the other. Joe took a breath and let it out slow. He reached down and jerked his survival knife out of its calf holster. The knife seemed small and worthless compared to the Tomahawk.

Suddenly, Bradley ran at Joe. The attack was fast and brutal, a diagonal blow aimed at Joe's neck. Joe spun to his right, out of the path of the blade in the nick of time. As Bradley whipped the Tomahawk back, gearing up for another swing, Joe turned and thrust the survival knife at Bradley's stomach. Bradley stumbled back and out of reach.

The men eyed each other from a safe distance, their breath steaming in the air. Joe kept thinking, the knife was no match for the Tomahawk.

Bradley rushed Joe again and Joe shimmied out of the way. The men circled each other, feinting, slashing, stabbing. Joe gave the Tomahawk a wide berth. He couldn't win this fight, not with the unevenly matched weapons. So, he let himself be driven back, in the direction where Bradley had tossed the shotgun. If Joe could get to it, he might have a chance. He could use the shotgun as a bat or a defensive weapon against the Tomahawk. Granted, it wasn't much of a plan, but it was something and something was better than nothing.

Joe felt for his footing in the tangled undergrowth of the woods. The Tomahawk's blade cut through the air, drawing ever closer, slicing at his cheek .. his arm .. his thigh.

Bradley had his opponent on the ropes, knew it, and became more confident. He flung his arm back further and swung the Tomahawk faster and harder, going in for the kill.

Joe took a step to the side, felt the edge of his boot touch something, and chanced a glance. The shotgun. His heart soared, but the glance cost him. Bradley brought the Tomahawk around in a tight arc and buried the spike end into the outside of Joe's thigh, midway above the knee. Joe gasped, felt the hard blow and then pain like a red hot poker had been thrust into his leg. He dropped his knife and fell on the leaf littered ground, the pain growing, pulsing.

Bradley smiled and bent over Joe, reaching for the Tomahawk's handle, getting ready to yank it free from Joe's leg and deliver a killing blow. This fight was over. Just a matter of cleanup for Bradley.

Joe lay on the ground, heart pounding, shock setting in.

Bradley pulled the Tomahawk free and Joe cried out. Despite the pain, Joe groped the ground with his right hand, feeling for the shotgun.

Bradley hefted the Tomahawk with two hands like he was getting ready to split a piece of wood. He grinned down at Joe. "Say good-night, Hardy."

A blur of fur and bared fangs came charging from the right. Muscles bunched and Bulka leaped over Joe, plowed into Bradley, and knocked him to the ground. Eighty pounds of raw muscle and teeth wrestled him onto his back, jerking him this way and that. The Tomahawk dropped from his hand and Bulka got him by the wrist. Her teeth tore through the fabric of his jacket and sank into his skin.

Joe's fingers found the shotgun and curled around it. Now he had to get up. How? His leg protested the notion loudly, saying standing was impossible. Joe didn't listen. He pushed himself into a sitting position, pulled the shotgun onto his lap, and took a few deep breaths. Bulka's growls and snarls focused his attention. She had released Bradley and was keeping her distance. Joe saw why. Bradley had a knife. How many damn weapons did the man have? For the moment, Bulka's raised hackles and snapping teeth kept Bradley cautious and at bay.

Joe forced himself up, onto his feet. Pushed through the pain and fear, fear that he might fall. He leaned against a tree for support and got the shotgun ready in his hands. Held it like a bat he was carrying to home plate.

Bradley was on his knees, egging Bulka on. "C'mon, c'mon, little doggie. Come and get me. I got a little something for you, too." He laughed and thrust the knife at Bulka. "Like that? Huh? C'mon. Come a little closer."

Two steps. Maybe three. That's all Joe needed to get to Bradley. Three steps max. He could do it. Had to do it.

He pushed off the tree and the world swayed. Joe shook his head, cleared his mind, and took a step. His leg screamed, _told you not to do this_. His pant leg was soaked with blood, warm blood, turning cold. He took another step and a deep breath. Bradley, too focused on Bulka, wasn't paying attention. Joe took a third step.

Bradley lunged at Bulka and Joe brought the shotgun up. He swung it for all he was worth with all the strength he had left. The stock crashed square into the side of Bradley's head and he dropped to the ground, face buried in leaf litter. He lay still and Bulka tip-toed closer. Softly growling, she pawed and sniffed the motionless man. Then she whimpered a warning, scooted back, and Bradley moved.

He lifted his bloody head, saw the Tomahawk under a shrub, reached out and grabbed it. Got an iron grip on it and rolled onto his back. He was just rising off the ground when the butt of the shotgun slammed into his head. The blow cracked his skull and he dropped like a wet rag.

Joe didn't think Bradley would be getting up again which was good. Joe was tired, his energy gone. He let the shotgun fall from his hands and collapsed on the ground beside it, not far from Bradley.

Joe lay on the cold ground with only the sound of his heartbeat. Then his breathing – ragged, shaky, desperate – followed by swelling, rising, throbbing pain. Pain with a voice all its own, a screaming pain. Sweat collected in his eyes and his sweatshirt clung to him like a second skin. The cold from the ground crept in, swept through his body, and stole his heat.

Bulka came up and sniffed him, pushed his cheek with her nose. "Good, girl," he said, the words slow and labored.

Bulka whimpered at him to get up, but her whimpers were lost in the wail of a siren. The ambulance was here. Good, Joe thought, he needed an ambulance. And then he slipped into unconsciousness.

* * *

 _A/N: Whew! Finally, this chapter is complete. I owe all of you a great, big thank you for the kind reviews. You are all so nice and supportive. Hope this chapter met some of your expectations. I know it ended on a bit of a cliffhanger, but I hope to post the final chapter very soon. Thank you again for the reviews! Until next time, take care._


	50. Chapter 50

Chapter 50

Vanessa was lost in her own insulated world. Alone, but not alone. Things were happening around her, yet she felt disconnected from them. She heard Nancy and Frank whispering.

"Let me take a look, Frank."

"No, it's fine. Just a flesh wound. You can't see anything in this light anyway. We need to focus on the farmhouse."

Frank was right about the light. Everything was muted in dark grays, especially here, at the edge of the woods.

Detective Ziegler was on his radio talking to the police station. "We're at the house. Call Preston's home. Get someone on the phone. I need to know who's inside. Also, what's the ETA on my backup from Ames?"

Vanessa had a list of concerns and on that list the farmhouse had dropped a notch. She did care about the old man and prayed he would survive, however, for him, help was here and more was on the way. Ziegler had said the ambulance was only a few minutes out.

It was Joe who topped Vanessa's list and anxiety wrinkled her brow as she asked herself, for the tenth time, _Where was he?_ _Why wasn't he answering his phone?_ She had called him four times and all calls had gone unanswered.

Nancy, Frank, and Ziegler were gathered around Ziegler's patrol car. The patrol car was parked next to Frank's SUV. Therefore, Vanessa was doubly sheltered should there be more gunfire.

Gunfire. They had all heard the shots. Bulka, ears erect and eyes shining like amber in the dim light, had whimpered and whined, begging to be allowed to go. Vanessa had held her back, worried for the dog's safety. But once the gunshots had stopped, Vanessa had made a decision and given Bulka a nod that said, _Go! Go find him!_

The dog had charged into the woods and disappeared. The fact the dog had not returned caused Vanessa to shudder. Had Bulka been .. Vanessa swallowed hard. She didn't dare think the word. That word led to a scenario Vanessa did not wish to contemplate. It was too horrible .. too painful. If something horrible had happened to Bulka then something horrible had happened to Joe.

The keening wail of a siren shattered Vanessa's thoughts. Like birds, they took flight in the light breeze. Vanessa crept to the back of the SUV, peeked around the bumper, and saw an ambulance coming slowly along the driveway, lights flashing and the siren switched off. Frank and Ziegler ran to the ambulance hunched, their weapons drawn and ready. Nancy came over to Vanessa and crouched beside her.

"I'm worried," Vanessa whispered to Nancy. "Joe's not answering his phone."

Before Nancy could respond the snap of a twig froze the women. Nancy put a finger to her lips and aimed her Glock in the direction of the sound. Both women stared into the dark, dark woods, waiting, hoping …

Bulka bounded out of the trees, planted her front paws, and barked at the women. Her fur bristled, her eyes pleaded, and she barked some more. Vanessa felt the urgency in those barks. Joe was hurt. Vanessa was positive. Bulka was telling her so.

Vanessa bolted to her feet. "Joe's hurt," she told Nancy. "I have to go to him."

Nancy looked at the dog and then Vanessa and said, "Go. I'll tell Frank and Ziegler."

Bulka turned, leaped into the woods, and Vanessa tore after her. Vanessa tripped and stumbled her way between trees trying to keep up with the dog. Bulka sensed her charge lagging behind and slowed, waited for Vanessa to catch up, and took off again.

Vanessa kept her eyes glued to Bulka's tail as she ran. The pale colored fur on the underside flashed in the dim light like a beacon, a beacon that would lead her to Joe. It seemed to take forever to reach him. In reality it was probably only five minutes. Still, a lot of time. Too much time.

Bulka ran straight to Joe's body and started whining and pacing, clearly distressed. She checked on Bradley, too, sniffed at him and backed away. He, like Joe, wasn't moving.

Vanessa stood there, stunned, taking it all in. The two men lay close to each other, two dark shapes on the forest floor. It was dark here among the trees and hard to see what had happened. The darkness wrapped itself around Vanessa and she shivered.

Phone, she thought and pulled it from her jacket pocket and used it to light up the scene. Dear God, Joe's left pant leg was wet and shiny. Blood. Had to be. She saw a gash in his pant leg. A vicious, ugly gash. A moment of nausea washed over her and she fought it, pushed it away, and knelt beside Joe. She touched his cheek lightly. It was ice cold and his lips were blue. She held her hand over his nose. Warmth! He was breathing, but just barely.

The darkness rubbed up against her and fear prickled her neck. She sensed Joe's body shutting down. Her heart, that organ so vital to life, seized and seemed to stop functioning properly. How could her heart continue to beat when Joe's stopped? A tear ran down her cheek and she brushed it away in irritation. No time for tears. She had to help Joe. Do something, she told herself. Stop the bleeding!

She ripped off her jacket and sweater and yanked her undershirt over her head. She was down to her bra and cold. Goosebumps rose on her arms and her breath steamed in front of her. She didn't care. Joe was all that mattered. His life. Saving his life.

She rolled the undershirt into a long band, wrapped it around Joe's leg, tugged hard, and knotted it over the tear in the pants. She pressed on the knotted fabric and Joe moaned. She didn't want to hurt him, but she had to keep pressure on the wound. She also had to phone Nancy.

As if in answer to her unspoken pray, her phone, lying on the ground by her knee, vibrated. It was Nancy calling her. Vanessa pushed the receive button with a bloody finger while keeping a bloody hand firmly planted on the knotted undershirt. Blood. Joe's blood. She was covered in it.

"I found him, Nan," she yelled. "He's hurt. Badly. I – he, he needs help. Fast."

"Hold your phone up," Nancy said, "so we can see the light. So we can find you."

Vanessa grabbed her phone in a bloody, slippery hand and held it up. Faced it toward the driveway and farmhouse. Please, dear God. Please, let them see the light.

Seconds ticked by and then, Nancy cried, "I see it! We're on our way!"

Vanessa heaved out a silent sob and thanked God as tears blurred her vision.

Nancy and Frank were quick. Faster than Vanessa had hoped for. They came rushing through the trees, Frank with his phone out and the flashlight app on. He swept the beam over his brother and Bradley and gulped.

"His-his leg," Vanessa said through chattering teeth, "something happened to his leg. He – he's bleeding badly."

Nancy, her phone on flashlight app, shined the light on Joe's leg and saw Vanessa's bloody hands pressed against the knotted undershirt. Nancy also saw that Vanessa wore only her bra. Her sweater and jacket were sprawled on the ground. "You've done the right thing, Van. We have to keep the pressure on until the medics get here. I can take over if you'd like. Give you a chance to put your jacket and sweater on."

"N-no, it's okay." Vanessa was reluctant to relieve the pressure, even for a second, even though her arms ached.

"You're cold," Nancy said. "You need your jacket."

Vanessa shook her head. "I-I don't care. I can't let Joe down. He-he's lost a lot of blood."

Nancy picked up Vanessa's jacket. "Here, I'll help you put it on, one arm at a time. You need to stay warm or you'll get hypothermia." Nancy didn't say what they all were thinking, Joe may already have hypothermia.

"O-okay." Vanessa nodded, shaking and shivering with cold. Having the jacket on did sound appealing.

Nancy slipped the jacket over and up one arm and then the next. Vanessa kept one hand firmly pressed on Joe's leg the entire time. The jacket did not provide the comfort she thought it would. It was freezing and leaves and twigs clung to it. Vanessa almost wished she had not allowed Nancy to put it on her.

Nancy reached around and zipped the jacket shut. "There, you should start to warm up soon."

Frank had taken off his jacket, laid it over Joe's chest, and was speaking to him in comforting tones, "It's okay, bro. Help's here. You're going to be fine." Frank rubbed Joe's arms, creating much needed heat. Joe was too damn cold. Frank had to stave off the cold.

Bulka came over, circled around, and lay down next to Joe's head and shoulder.

Ziegler suddenly burst into view, flashlight in hand. "How's he doing?"

Frank looked up and squinted in the harsh glare of the flashlight. His jaw tightened and he swallowed back his emotions. "He needs an ambulance. ASAP."

"Got a medivac on the way." Ziegler grinned. "Figured your brother tried to be a hero again." Ziegler caught sight of Bradley and grimaced. He ran the beam of his flashlight over Bradley's body. "Looks like I was right. What'd he do, bash Bradley's head in?"

"How long on that medivac?" Frank asked, still rubbing Joe's arms.

"Two minutes, max. It's going to land in the field. Good thing there's plenty of open ground around here." Just as Ziegler finished speaking the sound of rotor-blades filled the air. He looked out beyond the woods and up. "Damn, they were faster than I expected." Ziegler turned back to Frank and the women. "Stay put, I'll guide the medics here once they land."

Frank nodded and Vanessa held back tears. She wouldn't cry, not until Joe was on that medivac. Then she could release all her pent up emotions, give in to a good, long cry.

Bulka lifted her head, laid a paw gently on Joe's shoulder, and licked his cheek. She whined mournfully and licked, begging him to stir. The dog's tenderness and love amazed Vanessa.

Joe's eyes fluttered and opened.

Vanessa's heart flip-flopped. "Joe! Babe, can you hear me?"

Joe stared up at the treetops and mumbled, "Ba .. babe," and then fell still, his eyes closing, shutting out the world.

Bulka got to her feet and barked, happy Joe had spoken. She barked some more, willing Joe to speak again. He didn't, but her barks led the medics to Joe.

# # # #

He swam. Swam through the black void, fighting to reach the surface. To regain consciousness. Awake meant he was alive. Asleep meant .. well, he wasn't sure what it meant. Probably nothing good.

He broke clear of the void, slowly opened his eyes, and scanned his surroundings. A hospital room. With hospital equipment. And hospital sounds. A monitor beeped softly to his left, keeping track of his heart rate and blood pressure. Soft, steady sounds were good. Those meant he was okay. Alive and well. Improving. Recovering.

He turned his head slightly and saw an IV. Yeah, he'd expected that. Would have been disappointed if there hadn't been an IV. No hospital stay was complete without an IV. Right?

He was in a hospital bed, covered in white hospital sheets, and could see that under the sheets his injured leg was elevated.

"Joe, you're awake."

Vanessa appeared above him smiling. She was a beautiful angel. Her expression was one he couldn't put into words, but he knew it, felt it as a physical touch in the center of his chest. Her hands, warm and soft, gathered his right hand in hers and he was instantly at peace. Calm. Relaxed. She was here, by his side. She hadn't run away.

His throat was dry. He wasn't sure he could talk. "Hey," he managed to croak.

She leaned down, her ash blonde hair, falling forward and brushing his arm and shoulder. She kissed him – hard – surprising him.

"Hey," he repeated with more enthusiasm this time.

"Hey, yourself." She ran a hand lightly down his cheek, the gesture incredibly tender and loving.

"How long have I been here?" he whispered, truly curious.

"Ten, maybe twelve hours. It's Sunday morning."

"No wonder I'm thirsty." His voice was scratchy.

She got him a cup of ice water and while he sipped, she told him the story of how Bulka had led her to him and how she had wrapped his leg to stop the bleeding. She told him how the medivac had flown him to the hospital.

"Sounds exciting." He grinned. He was feeling better now that his thirst was quenched. "Wish I'd been awake for the flight."

"You had us worried," she scolded. "Frank. Nancy. Me. And Bulka. We .. we .." She shook her head, took his cup and set it on the bedside table. "I don't want to talk about it."

He grabbed her hand and squeezed. "I understand. And I'm sorry for putting you – all of you – through that."

"It's not your fault, really," she said, contrite now. "You stopped Bradley. You saved people, Joe."

"The old man? Mr. Preston. He's alive?"

Vanessa's expression told him the news wasn't as good as he hoped. "He's in ICU. They're doing everything they can for him."

Joe wished he could erase the sadness in Vanessa's eyes, take away all the evil in the world. Knowing that was impossible, he simply said, "I hope he makes it."

"Knock, knock." Detective Ziegler had entered the room. "Sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to see how you're doing, Hardy."

"Hey, great to see you." Joe tried to sit up a little straighter. A razor sharp pain in his left leg told him that wasn't a good idea.

Vanessa let go of Joe's hand as Ziegler approached the bed. She acknowledged the detective with a polite nod and said, "I could use a cup of coffee. I'm going to go to the cafeteria. Be back in a bit."

The men realized she was giving them time and space to talk privately.

Ziegler pulled up a chair and sat beside the bed. "You don't look half bad for a guy who was brought in half dead."

"Well." Joe gave a small, helpless shrug. "Can't say I remember much of the half dead part."

"Probably a blessing," Ziegler said. He paused a beat, looked around the room, and finally spoke again. "I found several weapons in the woods, where you and Bradley were. I'm guessing the Tomahawk is responsible for the wound in your leg." Bradley tipped his head in the direction of the aforementioned leg.

Joe exhaled slowly, deliberately. "Yeah, it is."

Ziegler pulled a mini-recorder from the pocket of his suit jacket and laid it on his thick thigh. "I need a statement from you, Hardy. Need you to tell me everything that happened last night between you and Bradley."

Joe told his story. It didn't take as long as he thought it should. Funny how the events seemed to take forever when they were happening and now, today, they were told quickly, without emotion, in a few short minutes.

Ziegler switched off the recorder. "Sounds like you hit Bradley in self-defense, therefore, I'm not charging you with anything." He saw Joe's brow hitch in question. "You know I had to do this. Just a formality. I never doubted you were in the right. Besides, I can't get a statement from Bradley."

Joe's brow lowered into a frown. "Why not?"

Ziegler drew in a breath and blew it out. "Doctors say he's suffered massive bleeding on the brain. Doesn't look good for him. He's not responding to any stimulus. One doctor told me he's of the opinion that Bradley is brain dead. The chances of him waking up are one in a million and even if he does wake up, he'll never be the same. He'll have all kinds of neurological problems."

Joe stared at the ceiling. Swallowed and thought about it. Did he feel sad? No. Did he feel remorse? No. Joe had done what _had_ to be done. Bradley had tried to kill three people. Three vulnerable, innocent people. Four if you counted Vanessa and Joe certainly did. Joe had made sure Bradley would never terrorize anyone ever again.

Joe's gaze drifted back to Ziegler. "Wish I could say I'm sorry, but I'm not. The world is better off without him."

Ziegler nodded. "Couldn't agree more. Just had to clear that up, that you acted in self-defense. Makes my paperwork easier." Ziegler stood and slid the mini-recorder back into his suit pocket. "I've got more news."

"Hope it's good," Joe said.

Ziegler rested a hand on the bedrail. "Colonel Charles confessed to killing Nicholson's wife."

Joe gaped at Ziegler a full second. "You're kidding me."

Ziegler shook his head. "Nope, no joke. He confessed. Said it was the first killing he did for Nicholson."

"The first? There were others?" Joe cringed, fearing the answer.

Ziegler sighed and suddenly looked exhausted. "Well, yeah. He admits to killing all the hobos. You see, in his mind, he was doing the killings for Nicholson. Although, Nicholson never explicitly asked him to kill the men."

Joe shook his head. What could he say to that? Nothing, so he focused on Nicholson. "The Colonel's confession means Nicholson hired him to kill his wife. You've got Nicholson on conspiracy to commit murder."

"Yeah, and you don't know how happy that makes me. I've waited eight, long years to get that son-of-a-bitch behind bars and, finally, he's there. I've got a good case against him. He won't be getting out anytime soon. Those high priced lawyers of his can't help him this time."

"Good," Joe said. "What about Mike Mueller? You searched his shed, right?"

"Yep, found the third ax in there just like you predicted we would. Brought Mueller in for questioning this morning, but he's clamed up. Hasn't said a word other than to ask for a lawyer. Don't worry. I'll get him. He has no explanation for where the other two axes are."

"What you need is the burner phone," Joe said. "Keep searching his property. It's got to be there somewhere."

"Yep got a couple of uniforms out there now with a metal detector. If the phone's out there, they'll find it."

Joe nodded, he was starting to feel as exhausted as Ziegler looked and his leg was throbbing, saying pain meds in the near future would be a good idea.

Vanessa opened the door and stepped into the room, a styrofoam cup in her hand. She eyed the men expectantly. "I can come back in a few minutes if you need more time."

"No," Ziegler said, "I'm leaving." He laid a hand on Joe's shoulder and gave it a quick squeeze. "Take care, Hardy and stay in touch."

"Will do." Then Joe remembered something else and said, "Hey, what about Boxberger? How's he doing?"

Ziegler smiled, a genuine smile. "He's recovering. Making great progress according to his doctor. And once he's healthy, we have a nice prison cell waiting for him."

Joe nodded his satisfaction and Ziegler departed, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Vanessa set her cup on the bedside table, peered down at Joe, and brushed wisps of blond hair off his forehead. "Babe, you look tired. You need to rest."

"Yeah, and a little pain medicine would be nice."

And so the day went, Joe napping for long stretches, waking only to use the bathroom, get more pain medicine, and slake his thirst. Vanessa sat beside him the whole day, reading a novel she'd bought in the hospital gift shop. It wasn't much of a story, but it passed the time. In between chapters, she refilled Joe's cup with fresh water and ice, helped him in and out of bed and in and out of his wheelchair. Joe couldn't put any weight on his bad leg, so the wheelchair was a necessity at this point. He couldn't get to the bathroom without it, couldn't stand on his own two feet. A sobering thought. Joe realized he and the wheelchair were going to be buddies for a while.

The doctor showed up at three p.m. He was the same doctor Joe had seen for the snake bite. Small town, one hospital, not many doctors.

Doctor Reiner was in his late fifties, wore wire-rimmed glasses, and seemed to be a happy man. He smiled good-naturedly at Joe and said, "How's my most memorable patient feeling today?"

Joe's brow knotted in confusion. "Memorable?"

Doctor Reiner chuckled softly. "Yes, you are one of those patients a doctor never forgets. Two visits to the ER in less than three days and for two of the most unusual injuries I've ever seen. That makes you an unforgettable patient."

"Great." Joe wasn't particularly happy to hear he was unforgettable for medical reasons and became less happy as the doctor explained the seriousness of his leg wound.

"You are very lucky the spike didn't break your femur. If it had, you would be in surgery today having a rod screwed into your bone."

Joe grimaced and paled as the doctor continued.

His recovery – full recovery – would take four to six months. "Your thigh muscle was torn," Doctor Reiner said. "I stitched it back together, but muscles take a long time to heal. You are not to put _any_ weight on that leg for a week. Two would be better. After that, you can start using a rollator. No physical activity for a month …"

Joe only half listened as the doctor ran through a list of instructions. A list of dos and don'ts. Joe was tired – again – and a bit overwhelmed. A long recovery loomed in front of him.

He retreated to sleep, a safe haven. When he woke, Frank and Nancy were in the room quietly talking with Vanessa. The lights were on and the window curtain had been drawn signaling it was evening. Joe shoved the bedsheet off his chest, looked over at his brother and future sister-in-law, and said, "Frank, Nancy. When'd you two get here?"

Frank turned, smiled, and crossed to the bed carrying a paper bag. "Got here a few minutes ago. We brought you a hamburger and fries. Thought you might be hungry."

Joe suddenly realized he hadn't eaten all day. "I am. I'm starving." The hamburger smelled delicious, greasy and meaty, just the way a hamburger should smell.

Frank pulled Joe's tray table over and placed the bag on it. "I see the legendary Joe Hardy hunger remains intact."

Nancy piped up, "You're no slouch in the hunger department yourself, Frank."

"Yeah," Joe said and dumped the food out of the bag.

Frank grinned and shrugged. "So, how you feeling, bro? Van says you slept most of the day."

Joe unwrapped the hamburger. "All things considered, not bad. Not great, but not bad. My leg hurts like hell, I've got a mild headache, and I feel like I could use another ten hours of sleep. How's that sound?"

"It sounds like your body needs a lot of rest so it can heal," Frank said.

Joe picked up a French fry and used it to point at Frank. "How are you doing? You got shot last night."

Frank rolled his eyes. "Barely. Took some buckshot in the arm. Got a couple of small flesh wounds. Cleaned them up when I got home, slapped some antibiotic on them, and called it a day."

Joe nodded and ate his fry. He was relieved to hear his brother had not been seriously injured.

"We have some good news," Nancy said, coming to stand on the opposite side of the bed from Frank. "Ziegler called Frank about an hour ago. The police found the burner phone on Mike Mueller's property. He'd buried it at the far edge of his land under an old burn pile."

"Now that," Joe said, pointing with another fry, "is the best news I've had all day. I hope the tech and forensic guys can get info and prints off of that phone."

"More good news," Frank said. "The three axes have been compared and they're identical. They all come from the same manufacturer and their manufacturing numbers are sequential."

"Got him." Joe almost laughed, he was so happy. "Mueller's going to have a hard time talking his way out of this, the burner phone and axes."

"Agreed," Frank said.

Vanessa, standing beside Nancy, said, "There's some sad news, too. Well, it's sad and happy."

Joe frowned at her. What the hell was she talking about? "How can it be sad and happy at the same time?"

"It's Bulka," Van said. "She's back with Wayne. He was released this afternoon."

"Yeah," Frank said, "Nancy and I picked him up at the police station and drove him home. Bulka was in the back of the vehicle going crazy. Barking, whining, howling. She couldn't wait to get out of her crate and see Wayne." Frank laughed. "When I finally let her out, I thought she was going to hurt herself she was wagging her tail so hard."

"Her whole body was wagging," Nancy added, smiling.

"Wish you could've seen it, bro," Frank said.

Joe detected a sentimental catch in Frank's voice and wished he had seen it.

"I'm sad she's gone," Van said. "I didn't get to say good-bye." She looked at Joe. "Neither did you and she saved your life. If not for her, I never would have found you last night. She led me straight to you."

"Hey," Frank said to Vanessa, "you saved Joe's life, too. If you hadn't followed Bulka and gotten there when you did and made a tourniquet .." He didn't finish. His voice had developed that sentimental catch again.

Joe looked directly into Vanessa's eyes. "You both saved me. Both of my girls came through for me and don't worry, babe, we'll see Bulka tomorrow, after the hospital releases me." He traded glances with everyone standing around the bed. "I am getting released tomorrow, aren't I?"

Everyone broke out in smiles and Van said, "Yes, you are."

That's all Joe needed to hear. Knowing he could leave in the morning meant he would sleep well tonight. Honestly, one night in a hospital was all he could tolerate.

# # # #

Midnight. Joe lay awake, the nurse checking his pulse. He'd forgotten about the nightly rounds a nurse made, the continual, although brief moments of being woken up. He didn't complaint. The nurse had given him pain pills and ice water. She'd also been kind enough to get him a snack from the nurse's fridge. Bless her for that.

She said good-night and left the room, leaving him alone with the soft beeping of the monitor and his thoughts. Vanessa was there, in his mind. He loved her more than he could express in words. It seemed there were no words to adequately express his emotions. Such a shame. Someone needed to invent new words.

He was lucky to have Van and her love. Her love gave him strength. In the coming months, he would need that strength. He was reminded of a saying by Lao Tzu, an ancient Chinese philosopher and writer.

 _Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength while loving someone gives you courage_.

The saying seemed to fit him and Van perfectly. They gave each other strength and courage. Together they could accomplish anything. Together they were an unbeatable team.

He was fading again. Sleep – healing sleep – called to him softly. He gave in, let sleep take him. Tomorrow was going to be busy. Tomorrows were always busy.

* * *

 _A/N: Okay, so Paulina Ann was right and I was wrong. I couldn't finish this story in just one more chapter. I tried though. So folks, there should be one more chapter after this. Famous last words, huh._

 _Several people have asked me if I'm working on another story. The answer is yes. It's a Frank/Nancy story. No Joe or Vanessa in it. So, if you are not into F/N, you probably will not be interested in the next story. Sorry to disappoint._

 _As I always say, I appreciate all the kind, wonderful, thoughtful reviews people have left for this story. I know some of you are sad we're almost at the end and I'm kind of sad, too. This has been a fun story to write and I really have enjoyed writing Joe and Bulka. Shout-out to the guest reviewer who said Bulka was her favorite OC. That made my day. And yes, to another reviewer, Bulka is a German Shepard. I think I mentioned that forever ago when she was introduced._

 _Take care everyone and I'll try to get the next chapter out soon._


	51. Chapter 51

Chapter 51

The night was quiet. Light from the outside streetlamp glowed around the edges of the curtains. He lay awake, happy to be home. Bulka was curled at the foot of the bed, head on her paws, sleeping soundly. He had _never_ let her sleep on the bed before. Never. The usual nighttime routine (when he was home at night and not at his security job) was for her to curl up in her doggie bed. The one wedged between the side table and his bed. In it, she was close enough he could reach down and pet her or adjust her blanket.

Tonight, though, she had begged to be allowed on the bed. She had looked at him with the saddest eyes he'd ever seen. After that, he couldn't refuse. Actually, he hadn't wanted to. Tonight, of all nights, he needed her close to him as much as she needed him close to her. Neither wanted to be far apart it seemed. Sort of an affirmation of their deep bond and love. She was the only thing he had thought of the past week while sitting in a jail cell. The days had been long and the nights longer. Lonelier. How many times had he asked himself, _Does she miss me?_

Today, he got his answer. He would never forget the sight of her leaping out of Frank Hardy's SUV, tail wagging furiously, body quivering, and barking her excited bark. She had jumped up, put her paws on his shoulders (something he had trained her not to do, but today he hadn't cared and hadn't reprimanded her), and licked his face. Her greeting had staggered him to the core. Her love so genuine, so sincere. He'd almost cried right there in front of Joe's brother and girlfriend. A few tears had escaped and he'd jerked off his glasses, wiped at his eyes and saw that Joe's brother and girlfriend were a bit teary eyed themselves.

Bulka's display of love had humbled him. Unbridled love. And he loved her equally as much. They'd spent the afternoon together, joined at the hip. She had a new stick and they'd played fetch in the backyard, in the cold, crisp air, her running and fetching. Barking and prancing. Filled with joy at being home, at being in her own backyard and, dare he think it, at being with him.

Dinner time came and they retreated to the house. The heater had finally warmed the place. The house had been bitterly cold when they'd arrived home. A cold snap had hit Healy the night before, even depositing a thin layer of snow.

There wasn't much in the house to eat and he didn't want to go to the grocery store and leave her alone, not after a week's absence. So, he'd settled for a can of soup and a sandwich and had given her an extra dog biscuit after she finished her dog food.

The evening was spent cuddled on the couch, watching TV. Him drifting off to sleep and her outright sleeping. Now, she slept and he lay awake thinking how lucky he was to have her. His whole life was dedicated to her. In his heart, he knew she felt the same about him and that's all he needed to know. It was all he had ever needed to know.

People in this world would let you down. It was a fact. He'd learned that early in life and now later in life. And yes, he was thinking of Uncle Mike. The man had betrayed Wayne and worse, had almost killed Bulka in the process. Uncle Mike had thrown the poisoned meat over the fence. Wayne would never forgive his uncle for that. The moral of the story was, there were very few people you could trust. But a dog? A dog was loyal. A dog stood by your side through thick and thin. A dog's love never wavered and that was the greatest lesson of all.

# # # #

Eight o'clock Monday morning Vanessa entered the Healy Hospital with clean clothes for Joe. She smiled at the nurse behind the reception counter and continued on, down the long hallway. She came to Joe's room and stopped at the doorway. A middle-aged nurse was instructing Joe in the correct use of crutches. Or at least trying to. If Joe's demeanor was any indication, the instruction did not appear to be proceeding smoothly.

Joe stood next to his bed, a pair of crutches under his arms. "I know how to use crutches," he grumbled, exasperation lacing his voice. "I've used them before."

The nurse seemed a little exasperated herself. "You have to show me, Mr. Hardy," she said in an even, controlled tone. "We can't release you until we know you can use crutches properly. Doctors' orders."

Joe rolled his eyes. "Okay, fine." Then he hobbled around the room, taking careful, measured steps. It wasn't as easy as he'd thought it would be. His arm with the snake bites made the short adventure extra painful. Overnight, the arm had swollen quite a bit.

After a few labored steps, the nurse said, "Thank you, Mr. Hardy. You can return to your bed."

She held out her hands and took the crutches from Joe's shaky hands. He collapsed on the edge of the bed and wiped his brow. The short walk had been difficult. His strength was gone, a sobering realization. One he had to come to terms with.

"The crutches are only for when you can't use a wheelchair," the nurse reminded him. "Doctor Reiner says you're to use a wheelchair as much as possible for the first two weeks. You're not to put any weight on that leg."

I have no choice, Joe thought as he sat on the edge of the bed feeling weak, old, and grumpy. He gave the nurse a forlorn look. "Yeah, yeah, I got it. Wheelchair. No weight on the leg. The doctor told me all of this yesterday."

The nurse shot Joe a stern glare and his back stiffened. "Well, some things bear repeating." Her brows rose with indignation as she leaned the crutches against the wall.

Vanessa stepped into the room, the plastic bag of clothes dangling from her elbow. "I'll make sure he follows the doctor's orders," she announced cheerfully.

The nurse turned, studied Vanessa as if searching for hidden information, seemed to find it, and said, "Very well then. I'll get the release papers for Mr. Hardy."

The nurse turned on her heel and left. As soon as the door shut, Vanessa lapsed into soft giggles. She bent and kissed Joe on the cheek. His stubbly cheek tickled her lips. He hadn't shaved in two days.

Vanessa put her hands on his shoulders and drew back to look at him. "Were you giving that poor nurse a hard time before I showed up?"

Joe's forehead scrunched into a frown and he sneered. "No, she was giving _me_ a hard time. Couldn't you tell?"

Vanessa held back a grin and set the bag of clothes on the bed. "I think, someone woke up in a bad mood this morning." Then a smile slipped out. She couldn't help herself. She found Joe rather endearing when he was grumpy and angry at the world. He was so like a small child who hadn't gotten his way.

Vanessa was pulling Joe's clothes out of the bag – sweatpants and a sweatshirt – when Frank showed up with visitors in tow. "Look who I found," he said and ushered Peggy MacDonald and Connie Marshal into the room.

Joe pulled the bedsheets over his bare legs. Those blasted hospital gowns left too much skin exposed.

Peggy MacDonald was dying to tell her story. She explained to everyone that Head Nurse Sheila, Peggy's lifelong friend, had phoned early that morning and said the hospital was in dire need of extra hands. The staff was stretched thin due to a bad traffic accident last night, two serious stabbings, and a crashed skull. Peggy, never one to turn down an opportunity to help others, had promptly awakened Connie, told her the situation, and the two women had dressed and headed for the hospital. Upon arriving, Peggy had discovered that Joe Hardy was one of the stabbing victims and, of course, she and Connie had to see him. So, here they were.

Joe looked at Connie. He wondered if she knew about Wayne, that he was out of jail. Only one way to find out. "Your brother was released from jail yesterday."

Connie was surprised and slightly confused. "Really? Um, does that mean he didn't kill mom and Dan?"

"That's exactly what it means," Joe said. "We know who killed your mother and Dan Sagget."

Connie's eyes widened. "Really? Who?"

Joe traded glances with a stoic faced Frank and then said, "Your Uncle Mike."

Connie's dark eyebrows inched toward her hairline and her jaw dropped. "Un .. Uncle Mike? He's .. he's my mom's brother." Said as if this meant he could not possibly kill his sister.

Joe nodded sadly. "Yeah, I know. But what you might not know is that Mike has held a grudge against Dan for twenty-some years, all because Dan had an affair with his daughter Annette when she was eighteen. When Annette became pregnant, Dan dumped her and he never helped Annette with child support."

Connie covered her mouth with a hand. She appeared ready to vomit. "Annette slept with Dan?"

Peggy put a comforting arm around Connie's shoulders. "You didn't know, honey? You never suspected anything?"

"No," Connie cried, shaking her head. "I-I knew Annette was seeing someone back then, she told me that, bragged about it. Said she was seeing an older man." She looked at Joe with irate eyes. "She never said who he was. Oh my God, now I know why she never told me his name. I'd have been disgusted and would've told her to stay away from him. That he was bad news. Good God, I'm disgusted even today just hearing about it."

Peggy's concerned gaze zipped between Joe and Frank. "This Uncle Mike. Where's he now?"

Frank answered, "He's in jail and there's enough evidence to keep him there. The police recovered the burner phone he purchased and used to phone Wayne. The tech guys have recovered other pertinent data from it, too. The data places Mike at both crime scenes."

Joe looked up at his brother, one eyebrow lifting in question. "You talked to Ziegler this morning?"

Frank nodded. "Yeah, and there's more. Bradley died this morning."

"Bradley?" Peggy said. "Who's he?"

"He," Joe said, "is the man who put a woman in the trunk of her car and pushed the car in the river."

Connie spun and stared, wide-eyed, at Vanessa. "Isn't that the man who also attacked you?"

"He is," Vanessa said. The news of Bradley's death was a surprise, a mild shock, nothing more. "And as heartless as it sounds, I can't say I'm sorry to hear about his death. Over the past couple of days he tried to kill several people." An idea occurred to her and she looked at Peggy. "Maybe you know or you can find out about a Mr. Preston. He was brought in last night. He's one of the people Bradley tried to kill yesterday."

Peggy's face lit up. "Oh, yes, Mr. Preston. Connie and I took him breakfast an hour ago. He's in ICU and, thank the stars, he's in stable condition. The nurses up there told me it's a miracle he survived the night. Everyone was praying for him and today, the doctors are cautiously optimistic he'll recover completely."

Vanessa squeezed Peggy's sturdy forearm with both her hands. "I'm so happy to hear that. I could hardly sleep last night, I was so worried about him." Vanessa cast a subtle glance at Joe and grinned. "Ahem, when I wasn't worrying about my fiancé, of course."

"Of course," Peggy said with a knowing smile.

"My mom," Connie said, looking at Joe, "why'd Uncle Mike kill her?"

Joe shrugged and held out his hands, a helpless gesture. "My guess is your mom knew about Dan and Annette and never told her brother about the affair. Mike spent years trying to figure out who the father was of Annette's child. Once he found out he probably resented your mom for not telling him."

Connie absorbed the information and nodded slowly. "Thanks. Mom might have known."

Joe wished there was more he could say, but honestly, no one would ever know for sure what Dolores Gage knew or didn't know twenty-some years ago.

# # # #

Joe sat in a wheelchair outside the Healy hospital waiting for Frank to bring his SUV up to the entrance. The day was cloudy and cold. Not as cold as last night and all the snow had melted. Joe was dressed in the sweats, tennis shoes, and jacket Vanessa had brought. His jacket was only one day old. Vanessa had saved it by following Nancy's advice last night. Vanessa had soaked it – and his other clothes – in hydrogen peroxide to remove the blood. Then she'd washed and dried everything at a laundromat. She and Nancy had decided to do a load of clothes while Frank tidied up the rental house so they could checkout first thing this morning.

Vanessa was reading texts on her phone and talking. Joe was kinda, sorta listening. His brain was numb and he was finding it hard to concentrate this morning.

"Nancy's halfway to River Heights," Vanessa said. "She's going to get a wheelchair from a medical supply company and will have it at the Endeavor office by the time you, me, and Frank get to River Heights. Nancy's very efficient, isn't she?"

Joe didn't respond. He sat in the wheelchair, hunched against the cold, hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket, his mind flickering through the events of the past week. A lot had happened in a short period of time.

"Joe? Did you hear what I said?"

Joe flinched and looked up at Vanessa. "Huh? Oh, yeah, I heard. Nancy's very efficient. I agree." Yeah, great. A wheelchair would be waiting for him when they got home. Okay, he shouldn't complain. He needed it. His leg told him so every time he tried to stand.

Vanessa sighed. "Good. You seem a little distracted today."

"Sorry." Joe let out a ragged breath. He felt tired. And frail. And battered.

"Hardy!"

Joe's head snapped in the direction of the yell. A wiry man was walking toward him. It took Joe a second to recognize the man. It was the voice that pinged Joe's memory. The man had changed. The scruffy beard and shaggy hair were gone. Without the all the hair, a handsome face was revealed. "Whiskey? Hey! How you doing?"

"I'm fine, man. It's you I'm concerned about. I heard you got hurt." Whiskey stood in front of Joe and nodded to Vanessa. "Morning, ma'am."

"This is Whiskey," Joe said. "Whiskey, this is my fiancée, Vanessa." Vanessa nodded and smiled at Whiskey as Joe continued, "Whiskey helped Frank and me find .." Joe didn't like remembering that night, the night they found Tommy Sims in a shallow grave on Nicholson's property.

Seeing Joe's hesitation, Whiskey said, "We found a buddy of mine. Helluva night that was, wasn't it Hardy?"

"Yeah, helluva a night." The impact of that night hit Joe all over again like a punch in the gut. A good life had been taken for no reason. Absolutely no reason at all.

"The dog helped." Whiskey smiled at Vanessa as if to say, you should've seen her. "She did most of the digging." Then he looked around and said, "Hey, where's the dog?"

"Back with her owner," Joe said, his tone dispirited and low. "Vanessa and I are on our way to see her and then we're heading home." Joe frowned up at Whiskey. "How'd you hear that I got hurt? It wasn't on the news or in the paper was it?"

"Nah." Whiskey waved a dismissive hand. "I ran into that detective. The one that came when the woman was locked in the trunk of her car."

Joe provided the name. "Ziegler."

"Yeah, Ziegler. I ran into him yesterday at the police station. My lady friend had a little matter to take care of. She got a citation."

Joe lifted an eyebrow in question. "Lady friend?"

"Yeah." Whiskey beamed. "I got me a woman. She's real pretty. She's a van dweller."

Joe's forehead bunched into a knot. "She's a what? What in the world is a van dweller?"

Whiskey chuckled. "Someone who lives in their van. You should see it. She's got it all tricked out. Bed. Kitchen. Even a toilet."

"I noticed you said _bed_ first," Joe teased with a conspiratorial smile.

Whiskey shrugged and grinned. "Priorities, man. Priorities." Then he caught sight of Vanessa's amused expression and blushed.

"Right." Joe laughed and it felt good. The laugh reminded him the world wasn't all bad. "What'd your lady friend get a citation for if you don't mind me asking?"

"Sleeping in her van in the city park," Whiskey said. "A policeman woke her up in the middle of the night, told her she couldn't sleep there cause it's against city rules or something. He wrote her up. Gave her a fine. I met up with her yesterday and took her to the police station. Said I knew a detective there that might be able to help. Ziegler remembered me just like that." Whiskey snapped his fingers and smiled. "In spite of my new look, he remembered me. Remembered that it was me and my buddy who found the woman in the river and had called for help. If not for us, that woman would be dead, he said. He took that fine, tore it up, and threw it in the trash. Said, one good deed deserves another."

Frank pulled up to the curb and hopped out of his SUV. "Whiskey," he shouted and came around the vehicle with a hand extended.

Whiskey and Frank shook hands then Whiskey pulled Frank into a long embrace.

When the men released each other, Frank patted Whiskey on the arm and said, "Good to see you again."

"Good to see you, too, man." Whiskey jerked his head in Joe's direction. "Been talking to your brother. He says you all are fixing to leave town soon."

"Yep," Frank agreed, "but we have to say good-bye to Bulka first. You remember Bulka?"

Whiskey nodded and smiled. "Oh yeah. Great dog. Won't never forget her." Whiskey looked down at Joe. "So, how you doing, Hardy? Ziegler said you got stabbed in the leg."

"I've been better," Joe said. "Doctors say I'll live. Should be back on my feet in a month."

"Using a walker," Vanessa added and Joe sneered.

"Well, I'm glad to see you're alive," Whiskey said and Joe felt the heartfelt sincerity in Whiskey's voice. "We need guys like you and your brother out there fighting the bad guys and getting criminals off the streets."

"Thanks," Joe said, "and Frank and I will continue the fight. Seems it never ends."

"True." Whiskey puffed his cheeks and blew out a breath. "Hey, it was good seeing you again, both of you," Whiskey nodded at Vanessa, "and meeting you. You all have a safe drive home and I hope you have a speedy recovery, Hardy. Me and my lady are getting ready to hit the road ourselves."

Joe tipped his head back and eyed Whiskey inquisitively. "You two are traveling together? You must've really hit it off."

Whiskey scrubbed a hand over his clean shaven chin and grinned. "Yeah, we did. She invited me to ride with her. We're gonna live outta her van. Travel the country. See the sights. Live off the land when possible."

Frank laid a hand on Whiskey's shoulder. "Sounds like fun. Hope it all works out for the two of you and thanks for helping us on our case."

The two men shook hands and embraced again. Two soldiers saying good-bye without saying a word. The words were in their hearts and minds and actions.

"I second that," Joe said, "and if I could stand, I'd hug you, too."

"Aww, gee. Here, I'll give you a hug." Whiskey bent and gave Joe a quick, tight hug.

Vanessa was moved by the touching display of camaraderie. Although the three men had not known each other long they had forged a permanent bond. All too quickly they were saying good-bye, waving to each other, and getting into vehicles. They probably would never see each other again, but they all knew they would never forget one another. That was certain. Written in stone. What the men had experienced – finding Tommy Sims and learning about Colonel Charles and his string of murders – those things would stay with them .. all three of them .. and occasionally haunt their dreams.

# # # #

The farewell with Wayne and Bulka was poignant and sad. Even a little heartbreaking. Frank parked the SUV at the curb in front of Wayne's house and Bulka bolted out of the front door like she'd been standing there waiting for them. She ran straight to the passenger's side of the vehicle and barked and whimpered. She could see Joe inside, sitting in the front passenger's seat. He had no intention of getting out of the vehicle. It had been hard enough getting _in_ it back at the hospital. He opened his door and Bulka whined at him as if asking how he was. _You okay, boss?_

Joe ruffled her fur and cooed, "Good girl. How you doing? Happy to be home?"

Wayne came out of the house, zipping up his jacket. Bulka ran to him and barked with what Joe thought was a smile on her face. Then she zoomed around the small front yard in excited circles. If Joe was any judge of body language, he'd say Bulka was happy to be home _and_ reunited with Wayne.

Frank and Vanessa got out of the vehicle. Bulka trotted over to Vanessa and licked her outstretched hand. Frank introduced Vanessa to Wayne and vice versa.

Wayne greeted Vanessa with a tiny nod. He was painfully shy around women. He turned to Frank, reached out a hand, and Frank shook it. "I forgot to thank you yesterday when you brought Bulka and me home. Thank you. I'm grateful for all you did to clear my name."

"Happy to do it," Frank said. "Joe and I enjoyed taking care of Bulka, too. Actually, she was a big help in the investigation."

Wayne looked surprised, but not displeased. "It's nice to know she helped free me."

Bulka was sniffing at Joe's legs. Joe figured she could smell the antiseptic and disinfectant and whatever else the nurse had put on the wound before wrapping it in fresh gauze and tape that morning.

Wayne walked over to Joe and gently nudged Bulka aside. "Go on, girl. Leave Joe alone." Frank had told Wayne about Joe's injury yesterday during the drive home.

Bulka whined then heard Frank whistle and ran to him. A smiling Frank petted her and gave her a nice chin scratching. Vanessa stood by watching, knowing she, Joe, Frank, and Nancy would miss Bulka immensely.

"Thanks, Joe," Wayne said. "Thanks for taking my case and for believing in me."

"Like Frank said, we were happy to help and I was happy to work with Bulka again." Joe paused, uncomfortable. He looked down at his arm, his leg, his ravaged body. This case had taken a toll on him and possibly on Bulka, too. "Did you tell me Bulka was seeing a trainer for her PTSD?"

The question startled Wayne. "I did."

Joe lifted his head and met Wayne's puzzled gaze. "Well, she might need extra sessions. She was exposed to gunfire again and, um, the events of the last few days may have aggravated her PTSD." Joe hated telling Wayne this. It had to be the last thing Wayne would want to hear. Joe hated the fact he might have pushed Bulka beyond what she could handle emotionally.

A concerned frown slowly creased Wayne's forehead. "I'll let her trainer know. I haven't seen any signs of stress in her since she got home, but I'll keep an eye on her."

"Good." Joe wished he had done some things differently. Too late now for regrets. He looked past Wayne and saw Bulka playing fetch with Frank. With her new stick. Joe grinned. Bulka and her sticks. She appeared happy. Carefree. Just the way she should. Bulka had more than earned her share of happiness in this life.

Joe looked at Wayne. "I'm glad you got Bulka. She couldn't have gotten a better owner."

Wayne pushed up his glasses in that very precise manner Joe remembered from their Army days. "Thanks, Joe. That means a lot to me."

"And," Joe said, "you and Bulka are invitied mine and Vanessa's wedding. We're getting married in December, right before Christmas."

Wayne drew back his head and looked downright fearful. Social gatherings always made him anxious. "Me and Bulka? I-I don't know. We've never traveled anywhere together."

"It would mean a lot to me," Joe said. "And Vanessa, too."

Wayne stood there gaping a second. "I-I'll think about it."

Joe nodded and smiled politely. "Well, that's all I can ask, but I really would like both of you there. I'd'like my Army buddies with me when I say, I do."

After a little more small talk, it was time to go. Frank and Vanessa said good-bye, petted Bulka one more time and got in the SUV.

Joe leaned out of the vehicle as Bulka approached and petted her head. "Take care, girl. Hopefully, I'll see you in December." He waved good-bye to Wayne and closed the door.

The case was over. Now, it was time to heal.

* * *

 _A/N: Hangs head in shame. As you can see, this story isn't quite finished. Yes, there would be another chapter. Hopefully, that will be the last one. I know, I know! How many times can I say that? I feel ridiculous, but that's the way it is. I keep thinking of things I feel need to be IN the story and that makes it longer and then I go, gee, this chapter is getting way too long. That's what happened here and, honestly, I needed to post what I had completed because it kind of clears my mind. I can say, there that's done and posted and I can move on to the final scenes. Don't know if that makes sense, but it's how I write._

 _Again, I want to thank everyone who has reviewed. You all are wonderful and thoughtful and make my heart glad. Thank you for your support and kind words!_


	52. Chapter 52

Chapter 52

 **One Week Later**

Joe stared down at the stack of paperwork on his desk. This was his job now, the office paperwork. Usually Nancy or Frank did this work – paying bills, checking bank statements, rereading case notes, etc. Nancy or Frank did it, mainly, because Joe abhorred paperwork. Up until now, Joe had managed to avoid the paperwork except for his own case, of course. That he readily completed. Readily, as in, as fast as possible.

A bum leg and being stuck in a wheelchair had placed him on permanent office duty for two full weeks. One week down, one to go.

Joe's phone rang and he checked the caller ID. His mom. He sighed. She'd been calling daily to check on him. He understood her concern, her worries her care and love. His daily mission was to put her mind at ease.

He picked up his cell phone. "Hi, mom. How you doing? How's the weather in Bayport?"

"Sunny, but not warm. I think the high today is 45. How are you? You behaving yourself?"

Joe let out a weary breath. "Yes, I'm behaving, mom. I'm sitting here in my wheelchair, at my desk, doing paperwork."

"Good, that's exactly what you should be doing. I know it's not your favorite thing in the world, son. Just remember, you only have one more week in the wheelchair and then you can start using the rollator."

"Yeah, one more week." Joe sighed long and heavy. Oh, joy. One more week. Sarcasm duly noted. The rollator didn't excite him anymore than the wheelchair had, but he would use it. Frank would make sure he did. Nancy would make sure he did. And if they somehow didn't, Vanessa surely would.

"I know it's hard," his mother was saying, "but you don't want to rush your recovery. If you push yourself too hard before your leg is ready .."

Joe tuned his mother out. He'd heard all of this before. _Don't push yourself. Take it easy. And so on and so forth._

Finally, his mother said, "Well, I'm glad you're doing well, Joseph. You know your father and I have been very worried about you."

"I know, mom. I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry about, Joseph. We understand that it's part of your job. Just behave yourself, please." That _please_ tugged at his heart. A mother's love rang through it saying, _take care of yourself, son_. "I'll call in a couple of days to see how you're doing."

He almost blurted out, _A couple of days_? But caught himself. He could do without the daily calls. Hell, he might even start to miss them.

"Yeah, okay. Great to talk to you, mom. I love you."

He ended the call and went back to the paperwork, his mood a little lighter. Crazy how his mom had that effect on him.

The weeks passed. He transitioned to the rollator with no problem. Spent two weeks rolling that thing around. At least, he could put some weight on the leg. That felt good. The damaged muscle and tissue were mending, the leg was getting stronger. The doctor in River Heights was pleased with Joe's progress and scheduled physical therapy. Physical activity would help the healing, limit the scar tissue, and improve the range of motion, the doctor said.

Joe did physical therapy two days a week. He enjoyed the sessions. They made him feel whole again. He could feel strength returning to his leg, to his whole body. At home, he faithfully performed all the exercises the therapist taught him.

When Joe wasn't at physical therapy, exercising, or doing paperwork, he was on the phone either texting or talking. Whiskey sent pictures of himself and his lady friend sightseeing in Yosemite Park in California. The couple looked happy and relaxed. Joe hoped the relationship lasted. Joe sent his 'best wishes' to Whiskey and told him how his recovery was going.

Joe also touched base with Detective Ziegler. Joe had asked how the police officer – the one Bradley had shot – was doing. Ziegler said the bullet had gone through the officer's jaw. The poor man had had to have his mouth wired shut and would be on a liquid diet for two to three months. Joe expressed his sympathies and said he was grateful the man had survived.

Ziegler kept Joe up to date on Boxberger, Nicholson, Mueller, and Colonel Charles. All were headed for prison. Colonel Charles and Boxberger had pled guilty to the charges against them. Colonel Charles was given a life sentence which seemed reasonable to Joe. Boxberger agreed to testify against Nicholson and received a ten year sentence with the possibility of parole. That also seemed reasonable.

Nicholson and Mueller had opted for jury trials.

"It's a waste of tax-payers money," Ziegler had griped. "But I have no doubt they'll both be found guilty."

Joe had no doubt either.

Mid-November came and Joe was using a cane. He and Vanessa took long walks on the weekends. They often drove to the city park. The weather was usually cold and windy. Joe didn't mind. It was good to be outside and among nature. He and Vanessa walked and talked, making plans for their honeymoon. Joe was making plans to walk without the cane by December.

During the week, he started going to the gym and working on his upper body. It was important to keep his arms and torso strong. Squats were soon added to his exercise routine. Slowly, he was regaining what he'd lost.

His parents came for Thanksgiving. It was a huge family affair at the Drew's house. Hannah, the Drew's longtime housekeeper, had the menu planned and the food bought. Vanessa, Nancy, and Joe's mom all pitched in to cook the meal. Joe, his dad, Frank, and Mr. Drew sat on the sofa and chairs in the living and watched the football game. They swapped stories and joked about things that had gone wrong on a case. Joe was happy his leg and snake-bitten arm were not the focus of every conversation.

The women's laughter rang out of the kitchen and all the men laughed. Joe wasn't sure why they all had laughed, but they had. All that mattered was that everyone was happy and everyone was safe.

The turkey was cooked to perfection. The potatoes were fluffy and light. The pumpkin pie was hot and delicious. Everyone ate more than they should. Wasn't that the way Thanksgiving dinner was supposed to be?

Joe had invited Wayne and Bulka for Thanksgiving and as expected, Wayne had declined, but then surprised Joe by saying he was going to Peggy MacDonald's for Thanksgiving. Wayne's sister, Connie, had extended the invitation and had pressed Wayne to accept. Finally, he'd consented. Joe was happy to hear that. He hadn't wanted Wayne sitting home alone on Thanksgiving. Yes, he had Bulka, but it wasn't the same. Wayne needed to be around people more and Joe could see Wayne was taking small steps in that direction.

Wayne also told Joe he was seeing a counselor. His lawyer, Monica LaMarca, had arranged the sessions and had insisted Wayne give the counselor a chance. To his credit, Wayne had.

"I'm learning about Moral Injury," Wayne told Joe. "It's like PTSD and it's not like PTSD."

Joe remembered what Monica LaMarca had told him and Frank months ago, that Moral injury was the sudden, terrible reality of war. A soldier's innocence was transformed into a heightened sense of morality. The symptoms were similar to PTSD – insomnia, nightmares, memory issues, and startle reflex, but the root cause was grief and guilt. A soldier with moral injury felt bitter about fighting a war no one cared about. He felt guilty about going home while his buddies stayed behind.

Over the ensuing weeks, Joe and Wayne spent hours on the phone discussing Moral Injury. It felt good to talk about it, to get their thoughts and feelings out in the open and to share those thoughts and feelings. Joe had never discussed his combat experiences with anyone. Certainly not his family, and not Vanessa. They wouldn't understand. If you hadn't been in a firefight or witnessed IEDs blowing up a buddy, how could you relate? Joe figured his phone conversations with Wayne were as beneficial for him as they were for Wayne.

And at last, Wayne finally agreed to come to Joe's wedding and, yes, he would bring Bulka. She was doing great by the way. Maybe a little clingy, Wayne said, but he hardly minded that.

"You've made my day," Joe told Wayne. "You and Bulka coming to my wedding is the best gift I could ever get. I know Vanessa and Frank and Nancy feel the same." Joe didn't stop smiling the rest of the day.

# # # #

December arrived and with it came cold weather and gray skies. This late afternoon was no exception. Joe sat at his desk, sipping hot chocolate, watching people pass on the sidewalk outside the office's big picture window. People were in a hurry to get home, dusk was falling. The world was rapidly growing dark. Most people carried packages and shopping bags. Joe saw a lot of that lately. Christmas was just around the corner. Everyone was out buying gifts.

Not Joe, though. He wasn't worried about buying Christmas gifts. He and Vanessa, and Frank and Nancy, would all be on their honeymoons by then. Instead of spending money on Christmas gifts, they were spending it on nice trips to warm places.

The weddings were only three days away. Joe's parents, Fenton and Laura Hardy, were flying in tomorrow. They would be staying at a hotel. Wayne and Bulka would arrive a day before the weddings and stay here, at the _Endeavor_ office, with Joe and Frank. A few other family members and close friends were coming, but not many. Joe, Vanessa, Frank, and Nancy were all in agreement that they wanted a small, intimate wedding. Nothing big and fancy. Just something low-key and understated, something that said, _I love you now and forever and that's all that matters_.

Joe sipped his hot chocolate and contemplated his future. His and Vanessa's. He and Vanessa would move into her apartment and Frank and Nancy would live in the apartment above the _Endeavor Detective Agency_.

Joe stared at his computer screen. He'd just finished an insurance fraud case. It was the first case he'd worked since his injury. Yep, he was back on active status and could walk without the cane. He'd even given running a tentative try at the gym on the indoor track. So far, so good. Slow and steady was the name of the game. He'd gone a few rounds on the punching bag, too. He came home sore, but it was a healthy sore. A soreness that said you had used your muscles.

Life was looking up and the weddings couldn't get here soon enough. Vanessa hadn't spent a single night in Joe's bed since they'd come home from Healy in October and, sadly, he hadn't spent a single night in her bed. Only recently had he been able to climb the stairs to her apartment. He'd arrived at her door all smiles, thinking the miraculous feat of climbing the stairs might persuade her to change her mind about the sleeping arrangements. It hadn't. She'd informed him – with a sweet and sassy grin – that logically, they should continue to sleep in their own beds until after the wedding. That way, the honeymoon would be all the more exciting.

Logically? What planet was Vanessa living on? Joe hadn't dared ask the question out loud. He knew enough about women and their _logic_ – questionable as it was in this case – that if he wanted a happy bride and wife, (and he did), he'd best go along quietly. He'd clamped his mouth shut and put on a happy face.

Well, at least Frank was in the same boat. Nancy had talked to Vanessa. A day later Nancy informed Frank there would be no more sleeping together until after the wedding. Her excuse, she had too much to do, so many things to accomplish or complete before the big day. She would sleep at her father's house until the weddings. Not that she had spent every night with Frank anyway, she had also reminded him.

So, the brothers were in this together, like it not. And just for the record, they didn't.

Joe swallowed the last of the hot chocolate and set the mug on his desk. He cast his mind back to October, to the time when Vanessa came by every night to check on him. She would bring him dinner and help him change the bandages on his arm and leg. The arm healed quickly and after a week didn't need bandaging. The leg took longer. Presently, it had a standard, over-the-counter, medicated Band-aid. Soon, it wouldn't need that.

Joe missed those days, the days of Vanessa leaning over him, taking off the old bandages and putting on new ones.

 _He was sprawled on his bed, wearing gym shorts and a t-shirt._

" _Hold still," she gently scolded._

" _I am." He smiled. She was still dressed in her work clothes. A nice dress that hugged her curves. "You look nice, babe."_

 _She seemed pleased by the compliment and gave him a peck on the cheek. He inhaled. She smelled like a bouquet of flowers._

 _She finished with the bandages and smiled down at him. Joe knew that smile. He'd grown accustomed to it and, God help him, he looked forward to it every day. That smile was the most important thing in his world. He would miss it if he never saw it again. Her smile transformed his world from dark to light._

 _He returned the smile, showing her he was okay, that he was recovering and would walk again without the rollator, without a cane._

He remembered another day …

 _She had come over after work and caught him staring at himself in the bathroom mirror, looking at his scars. He was in gym shorts and bare chested. He was leaning heavily on the rollator when he saw her face in the mirror. He thought he could read her thoughts, the same thoughts he had; that he looked a bit thin and frail._

 _She moved closer and took his freshly shaved face in her hands. "I love you, Joe." Then she kissed him softly on the lips, the kiss light and delicate like a butterfly landing._

He tasted that kiss on his lips now. Imagined he could smell her flowery scent.

The back door of the office opened and banged shut. Frank walked into the office and tossed his keys on his desk. Joe's memories shattered and he glared at his brother.

Frank frowned. "Everything okay? You look upset."

Clueless, Joe thought and heaved out an exasperated sigh. "I'm fine. I was just thinking about our upcoming weddings. Not much longer now."

Frank ran a hand through his dark brown hair. He looked frazzled. "Yeah, can't come soon enough for me."

"Me, too." Joe decided to keep the conversation light. "You finish that case you were working on?"

Frank appeared momentarily confused, like his mind had been elsewhere. "Huh? Oh, the cheating spouse? Yeah, the wife wasn't cheating. She was meeting with her husband's brother because they were planning a big birthday party for her husband. Once I told the husband what was going on, he felt stupid."

Joe gave a small shrug. "Still nice to know his wife wasn't cheating on him, though. Right?"

"Yeah." Frank still seemed distracted. "Hey, I ordered a pizza. It'll be here soon. I'm going to change clothes. Yell if the pizza guy shows up."

Joe nodded and watched Frank trudge up the stairs to the loft apartment.

Thirty-five minutes later, Joe trudged up the stairs, gripping the handrail for support and following the aroma of freshly baked pizza. Meat, pepperoni, cheese, tomato sauce …

Joe got to the top of the stairs and stepped into the dining area. Frank had the pizza box open on the dining table along with plates and napkins. That was all perfectly normal. It was the shot glass and whiskey bottle that wasn't.

Joe cocked his head to one side, lifted an eyebrow a fraction, and eyed his brother. "There a problem?"

"Huh?" Confusion furrowed Frank's brow.

Joe pointed at the whiskey bottle and shot glass.

"Oh." Frank shrugged and ran a hand over the back of his neck. "Um, just felt like having a drink."

Joe eased onto a chair, stretched out his bad leg, and put his forearms on the table. "Are you celebrating or drowning your sorrows? Either way, I'm in."

A grin cracked the corners of Frank's mouth and Joe felt the tension in the room fade. "A little of both," Frank said. "Celebrating our weddings, but it's been a long, dry spell if you catch my drift."

Joe laughed out loud. "Oh, I catch it, bro. Get a shot glass for me. Misery loves company."

Around the time Frank poured the third shot of whiskey the muscles in Joe's neck had loosened and the weight that had pressed on his chest for two months began to ease. He downed a slug of whiskey and enjoyed the sensation, enjoyed the long, slow, burn trickling down his throat.

Night had fallen. The dining room-slash-kitchen was lit by an ugly, overhead, florescent bulb. It threw harsh white light on the dining table. The whiskey bottle was inching toward the half empty mark and two slices of pizza remained in the box.

Joe slid a slice onto his plate. "Might as well finish it off."

Frank scooped up the last slice. "Might as well."

Eventually, the brothers moved to the living room where Joe plopped on the couch, shot glass in hand. Frank turned on the lights on the side tables and a golden glow filled the room. He pulled the curtains shut at the sliding glass doors that led to a small balcony that overlooked the parking lot in the alley below. Then Frank picked up his shot glass and sat on a recliner that had seen better days.

Frank looked at Joe and held up his glass. "To us. To our weddings."

Joe held up his glass. "Here, here."

The brothers spend the evening reminiscing, recounting childhood escapades and laughing at themselves.

 _Remember when we did such and such? How could we have been so dumb? What were we thinking?_

 _Well, we're older and wiser now._

 _Are we?_

More laughter. Heads thrown back, holding their stomachs laughter.

It was after midnight when Joe eased himself off the couch and hugged his brother tightly. "Love you, bro."

"Love you, too."

The hug lasted a few seconds more and then they released their grips on each other and stepped back, a bit unsteadily.

"Need me to help you down the stairs," Frank asked. "Don't want you tumbling down the stairs three days before the weddings. Vanessa would never forgive me, let alone mom and dad."

Joe, eyes half-mast, grinned at his brother and waved away his concerns. "I'm fine. I'll go slow." Joe threw an arm around Frank's shoulders, hugged him again, and stepped back. "Thanks for tonight, Frank. I had fun. It was great reliving all the dumb things we've done."

Frank chuckled softly. "In thirty years we can do this again. Relive all the dumb things we'll have done since tonight."

"Sounds like a plan," Joe said. "Good-night, Frank."

Frank watched Joe totter down the stairs. When Joe reached the bottom, Frank called out, "We have to leave at eleven a.m. to pick mom and dad up at the airport."

Joe looked up at his brother. "Haven't forgotten. See you in the morning."

# # # #

The next three days passed in a pleasant blur. There was a nice dinner the first night at the Italian restaurant across the street from the _Endeavor_. Nancy came with her father, Carson Drew, and housekeeper slash surrogate mother, Hannah Gruen. Fenton and Laura Hardy came, driving Frank's SUV. They thanked their son again for letting them use his vehicle during their stay.

Vanessa and her mother, who had flown in from New York, arrived shortly after Fenton and Laura. Vanessa's aunt and uncle who owned the _Farmers' Insurance Agency_ where Vanessa worked also came.

Wine and beer smoothed the way to playful banter and exuberant toasts. A festive night was enjoyed by all.

The next day, around mid-afternoon, Wayne and Bulka arrived. It was perfect timing. Joe, Frank, Nancy, and Vanessa had arranged a little get-together at the _Endeavor_ office. Joe ushered Wayne and Bulka into the office and introduced them to his parents and Carson Drew who were already there.

Carson and Fenton shook Wayne's hand.

"I hear you and your dog worked with Joe in Afghanistan," Fenton said.

Wayne pushed up his glasses and nodded. "Yes sir." Small talk was difficult for Wayne. He avoided people and interactions with them as much as possible.

"Thank you for your service." Fenton bent at the waist and smiled down at the beautiful, sable colored, German Shepard sitting at Wayne's feet. "And you, too."

"I second that," Carson said and Bulka barked as if to say, _You're welcome_.

Vanessa and her mother, Andrea, entered the office next. Both women were tall and blonde.

"I thought I heard a dog bark," Vanessa exclaimed, smiling. Bulka immediately scampered to her. Vanessa crouched, reached out a hand and Bulka licked it. "Aw, I missed you, too, girl." Vanessa stroked and petted the dog's velvety soft head. She cooed into Bulka's ears, telling her what a good girl she was, and then looked up at her mother. "This is the dog I was telling you about, mother. See how sweet she is?"

Andrea, a slender woman of fifty, eyed the dog skeptically. "She does seem well behaved, sweetheart."

Nancy and her two best friends, Bess and George, swept into the office carrying trays of snacks they had prepared that morning. They placed the trays on desk tops that Frank and Joe had cleared and cleaned.

Nancy cheerfully introduced her friends to Wayne and Bulka. Bess was a fashion consultant for a firm in Chicago, Nancy said, and George was a Physical Education teacher at a high school in a small town south of River Heights. Nancy explained that the women were cousins. Although, to look at them, no one would ever guess. Bess was a petite blonde with short, stylish hair and her clothes were worthy of the design labels they possessed. George, by comparison, was tall and boyish in looks and mannerisms. Her name fit her well. She had dark brown, pixie cut hair and her clothes were clearly chosen for comfort.

Wayne shook hands with the women and didn't say much. He was incredibly shy, especially around women. Bulka, however, was not. She quickly captured everyone's heart and graciously accepted every pat on the head, every scratch under the chin, and every ruffle of her fur. Being the center of attention suited her just fine.

Frank loudly asked, "Anyone want a beer or glass of wine?"

That broke what little ice remained and people began to mingle, partaking of drinks and snacks. There was even a chew bone for Bulka. The office was soon abuzz with happy conversations.

An hour later, Vanessa and Joe were huddled in a corner of the office discussing the weddings when Vanessa surprised Joe with a request. "I'd love for Bulka be our ring-bearer at the wedding. Do you think she could do it?"

Joe rubbed his chin and thought it over. "I think so. We'd have to tie something around her neck to hold the rings."

"I have something in mind," Vanessa said with a gleam in her eye.

"Okay." Joe smiled, realizing Vanessa had been thinking about this for some time. "This means Bulka has to come to the wedding rehearsal this evening and practice walking down the aisle."

"I don't have a problem with that." Vanessa squeezed Joe's hand, delighted that he seemed happy with the idea of Bulka being their ring-bearer.

"I'll talk to Wayne about it," Joe said. "I'm sure he'll be fine with it."

"Thanks," Vanessa said.

Joe pulled her closer, held her hard against his chest, and kissed her deeply.

Vanessa broke the kiss and giggled. "Save some for the honeymoon, babe." She paused to smile at her soon-to-be husband. "I can't wait to marry you."

Joe pressed his forehead against Vanessa's and held her tight. "Same here. In less than twenty-four hours we'll be Mr. and Mrs. Hardy."

"Less than a day," Vanessa whispered, her breath warm on Joe's face.

"Less than a day," he whispered back.

Vanessa scanned the room out of the corner of her eye. "Uh oh, Nancy's signaling me. I have to go. Nancy, Bess, George, and I have to pick up the flowers for the church."

Joe reluctantly let Vanessa slip through his arms. "Okay. I'll miss you."

"Same here," Vanessa said and reminded him, "Talk to Wayne about Bulka."

"I will, as soon as you're gone." Joe pushed a strand of hair behind Vanessa's ear, leaned in, and kissed her. This time the kiss was quick and tender.

# # # #

Bulka wore a silky, blue ribbon around her neck. Two wedding bands were tucked in a small blue pouch attached to the ribbon. Bulka walked slowly down the aisle. She understood her mission, understood the importance of the building and the ceremony and the small pouch around her neck. She must deliver it safely to Joe and Vanessa waiting at the altar.

Frank and Nancy also stood at the altar and several steps behind Bulka came Fenton Hardy and Carson Drew. Each man carried a ring in a velvet box. Nancy had opted to forego an engagement ring and instead, her wedding band, which Fenton carried, was encrusted with three small diamonds. Nancy and Frank had picked out the ring together. They had also purchased a modest wedding band for Frank that day. Soon, those rings would adorn their hands.

Bulka stopped and stood between Joe and Vanessa. Joe bent, tugged the pouch free, and signaled Bulka to sit. She moved a few paces away and sat. She had the best seat in the church.

Fenton stepped up next. He handed Nancy's ring to Frank, hugged his son, and whispered, "I love you, son."

Carson handed Nancy the ring for Frank and kissed his daughter's cheek. "You're beautiful, honey." The words he wanted to add stuck in his throat, _I wish your mother was here. I wish she could see you today._

Carson blinked back tears, turned, and he and Fenton solemnly made their way to their seats. Fenton sat next to his wife. She took his hand in hers and moved closer to him.

The minister began by giving a speech. He rambled on for a while about love and respect. Joe was impatient. _We get it_ , he thought, _get on with it_. _We're here to get married, not preached at_.

Finally, it was time to exchange vows. Joe and Vanessa turned to each other and joined hands. Vanessa glanced down coyly, her eyelashes casting shadows on her cheeks. Then she looked up and gave Joe a nervous smile. The big moment had arrived. The long wait was over.

Joe said his vows first, his voice breaking a few times. Then Vanessa said hers. Joe's eyes never left her face. He took in every word, every gesture, every inflection. He saw the love in her eyes and felt it radiate from her heart to his. He couldn't wait to start their life together.

# # # #

Her hand slipped to the back of his neck and Joe closed his eyes. Vanessa's fingers lightly stroked his skin, sending little jolts up into his brain. They were alone in their hotel room, both weary from the long day and traveling. They had gotten to the room, stripped off their clothes, and taken a shower.

Joe pulled her onto the bed and kissed her softly on the lips. She pushed him back and looked at him, put a hand on his chest, right over his heart.

"I love you, Joe."

He smiled. "I love you, too, with all my heart." Then he kissed her with a searing passion.

# # # #

Wayne and Bulka got home late that night. Bulka checked the house, smelled the doors and floors. Sniffed the couch and coffee table. No strange smells anywhere. Wayne let her out into the backyard. She bounded along the fence, hunting new smells. Again, nothing new. Nothing unusual. Bulka found a stick, laid down on the grass, and started chewing it.

Wayne checked his phone for messages and missed calls. Not that he got a lot of messages or calls. Although, over the past two months his sister had called him several times. They were finally bonding, becoming more brother and sister than they had ever been when younger. Connie even had a job now. She worked at the hospital filing medical records or something. Peggy MacDonald had been instrumental in getting Connie the job. Wayne liked Peggy. Peggy had been good for Connie. Peggy was the mother Connie had never had.

Wayne stared out at the yard. Dark shadows hung in the corners and under the big tree. The center, where Bulka lay chewing her stick, was lit by the streetlamp. It was like Bulka was lying in a spotlight. Wayne watched Bulka and thought about his mother, about the life he had endured as a child. The abuse and neglect. The shame. If he and Connie had had a different mother – one that had cared about them – their lives would have been so different.

Water under the bridge, he told himself. Nothing he did now could change the past.

He glanced at his phone and saw he'd missed a message from Casey at the Veterinarian's office.

 _Hi Mr. Banyan,_

 _Just a friendly reminder that Bulka has an appointment on Tuesday morning at 9. Please, let me know if you need to reschedule. Otherwise, hope to see you on Tuesday._

 _Casey_

Wayne read the message again. _Hope to see YOU on Tuesday_. He wondered if he was reading too much into it. The 'you.'

Joe would have told him he wasn't. He and Joe had talked about Casey during one of their marathon phone calls. Wayne had confessed to liking Casey. He thought she was cute. Joe had encouraged Wayne to ask her out.

"What have you got to lose?" Joe had said. "If she says, no. Fine. Your life continues as is. But, if she says, yes .. well, who knows. She could be the one for you. You'll never know if you don't ask her out."

Wayne had never asked a woman out. He'd never been on a date. Was it too late to start?

According to Joe, it was never too late.

Wayne typed a message to Casey.

 _Hi,_

 _Me and Bulka will be at the office by 9. Thanks for the reminder. Looking forward to seeing you, too._

 _Wayne_

His finger hovered over the send button. Was the message too bold?

Bulka nudged his leg, startling him. He peered down at her. She stared back, caramel colored eyes questioning him.

"I can't decide," he told her. "Should I send the message to Casey or not?"

Bulka head bumped his leg again and gave a little bark. Wayne took that as a 'yes,' and pressed send.

Two months later, Wayne and Casey were a couple. Whenever anyone asked how they met, they said Bulka had brought them together. And Bulka? She was quite happy to have another human who loved her and cared for her.

In the end, Wayne realized his life had turned out okay. He had the best dog in the world and the cutest girlfriend. Life, this life, all came down to love and Wayne, at last, had plenty of it.

THE END

* * *

 _A/N: A big thank you to everyone who has stuck around to the end. So sorry it took me longer than I hoped to get this final chapter written and posted. As always I want to thank those who take the time to leave a review. Your kind words are always appreciated and make the hard work of writing worth the blood, sweat, and tears that goes into it._

 _Take care everyone and happy reading! For me, it's on to the next story. :)_


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